Merkabah Rider: Have Glyphs Will Travel Read Free

weakened
voice.
    The sergeant stiffened and turned
back.
    Now the sorry looking 2nd lieutenant
stepped out from behind the prisoner.
    “What’s going on here, Sergeant
Weeks?”
    “Visitors, sir. Look t’ be
civilians, but this one claims to be a soldier.”
    “Former,” the Rider said. “Rider’s
my name, sir. This is my traveling companion, Kabede.”
    “Belden says he knows him,” said
Weeks, sourly.
    The lieutenant’s eyes flared, and he
looked to Belden.
    “Just a funny coincidence,
lieutenant,” drawled Belden. “I ain’t plotting a grand escape or anything. You’re
rousting me anyway.”
    The Rider was disbelieving. How
could this be possible? Could this really be the same man who had been his
friend since they’d met at Apache Canyon? Was this the same man who had taught
him to ride and pitch stones like David? He reflected for a moment how strange
his life had truly become, when he could more readily believe in a plotting
malevolent creature from another plane of existence than the happy,
coincidental reappearance of an old friend.
    He had often said he had no old
friends, of course, but Dick Belden was one. They had saved each other’s lives
a few times, and been through hell on horseback together.
    “Dick, what’s happening here?”
    Belden shrugged.
    The lieutenant cleared his throat.
    “As soon as these proceedings have
finished, I’ll take you men to see Colonel Manx,” the lieutenant mumbled
through necessarily clenched teeth, his words slurring on the ‘esses.’ “In the
meantime, you can state your business to me.”
    “And who are you, sir?”
    “Lieutenant Cord.”
    “Lieutenant,” the Rider said. “You’d
better think twice about going ahead with these proceedings. You’re going to
need every able man you’ve got in about a day.”
    “What’re you talking about?”
    “It’d be easier to show you.”
    The Rider motioned to Kabede for the
spyglass, and the tall African snapped it open and held it out.
    The Rider extended it and turned. It
didn’t take long to spot the sizable dust cloud rolling across the chalk white
desert. He focused on it, and held it out to the young lieutenant.
    “Take a look.”
    Cord limped up and took the spyglass
from the Rider.
    “What is it?” Belden asked as he
peered at the cloud of dust moving slowly across the valley floor like a great
thing burrowing beneath the sand, obscured entirely.
    “Shut up,” growled Weeks.
    “Good Lord,” Cord muttered. “Is it…Indians?”
    The Rider didn’t answer, but he
caught Belden’s eyes and shook his head.
    Weeks stood beside the lieutenant
and squinted his dark eyes. After a moment he sneered. “So what? Buncha Mex
cattle stampedin.’ Probably one of them chilishitters down there farted an’
spooked ‘em.”
    “You mean the people that live on
the rancho down along the edge of the desert?” the Rider said.
    “’Who else?” said Weeks.
    “They’re dead,” said Kabede. “They’re
all dead.”
    Cord lowered the spyglass, the
spaces between his yellow and purple flesh noticeably paler.
    Weeks cleared his throat at the
officer’s side.
    “Lieutenant, you don’t put Belden
here out on his ass, the colonel’s gonna have yours.”
    “Bullshit, Cord,” Belden said,
stepping closer to speak in the man’s other ear. “Forget what’s between us for
a minute. Whatever’s comin,’ you think you and Portis can rally these men? You
think they’re gonna listen to Manx? We’ve got to deal with this. You can kick
me down the hill afterwards.”
    “Maybe,” said Cord, still staring at
the slow moving cloud, and wetting his lips, “Maybe we should go get the
colonel.”
    Weeks frowned and didn’t move until
Lieutenant Cord looked up at him meaningfully. His frown deepened.
    “Take the prisoner back to the
guardhouse, sergeant.”
    Weeks straightened slightly and
executed a lazy salute.
    “Yessir,” he said. He swapped an
angry glance for Belden’s smug look of triumph, then