Scorpion Read Free Page B

the musket aside and, taking the pistol from Isabella, ordered the women to remain under cover, then he charged out of the creek and clambered up the limestone slope toward the ambushers.
    The Comanche hesitated, seeing Zion come on at a run, then returned his attention to Red Hair. Too late. The brave leveled his pistol, but the Patterson Colt spoke first. The brave rose up on his toes, fired into the air while his free hand clutched at his skull. He twisted, pitched to the side, and rolled down the cactus-dotted incline to splash facedown in the shallows. A trace of bubbles escaped his lips, a tenuous trace of life … ebbing … ebbing … ended.
    Red Hair scrambled to his feet and charged the limestone ledge the man in the serape had retreated behind. Any second he expected to dodge a hail of lead. Red Hair stumbled, cursed, regained his balance, thumbed the hammer of his Colt. Fifteen feet, then ten, a leap and a bound and he rounded the ledge, his finger tightening on the trigger.
    Nothing. The man in the serape had vanished along a boulder-lined path that wound upward and away from the arroyo, disappearing into a thicket of mesquite trees. As sweat stung his eyes and dripped from his jaw, Red Hair found himself staring at a scorpion scuttling over sun-baked stone. He sighed and almost relaxed. Boots scraped the rocks behind him, and the man with the Colt swung his weapon around to confront this new threat.
    Zion immediately held out his hands. “Muchas gracias, mi amigo.” It took him a moment to realize the dusk-caked, bruised figure standing before him was a norteamericano. The segundo tucked the big .45 caliber Allan in his belt, then wiped his hand on his vest before extending it in an offer of friendship. “You came along at a mighty opportune time, my heaven-sent friend. The name is Zion. Maybe you’ve heard of me. I ride for the Quinteros. You’ve heard of Ventana … Don Sebastien’s ranch …” The segundo’s voice trailed off as he spied the uncertainty in the norteamericano’s eyes.
    “Who is it?” Isabella called out. The girl had completely disobeyed Zion’s orders, left the protection of the wagon and crossed the stream to the other side, taking care to avoid the dead Comanche in the creek. Zion glared at her, but the girl’s question was one that was foremost in his mind as well, and he looked back at their benefactor for an answer.
    The man with red hair shrugged, holstered his gun, and wiped the sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand. His brow furrowed in thought, but even the attempt hurt. He had a Patterson Colt, the remnants of a uniform, and a silver coin dangling from around his neck. The coin, which he wore like a medal, bore the curious initials GW scrawled across the face of some monarch etched on the shiny surface.
    “I don’t know,” he said. Benjamin Bittercreek McQueen shook his head and abandoned the effort. Desperation sounded in his voice. “I … don’t … know.”

Chapter Two
    Z ION OVERTURNED A FLAT slab of chalk-colored stone and with the toe of his boot nudged a scorpion out into the sunlight. The brown insect scuttled across the white dust, its pincers raised, the curved, barbed tail arched threateningly.
    “They’re always where you least expect them,” observed the segundo, tormenting the defiant insect with a mesquite twig. “In your boots, under a blanket, right where you choose to, uh … squat.” The barbed tail struck at the offending stick. “And they pack one hell of a sting.” He looked over at the red-haired young man seated across the campfire. “Like you.”
    They were camped in a grove of scrub oak a couple of miles from the arroyo. Josefina, too shaken to continue on throughout the afternoon, had insisted that Zion find a place to make camp. She was hoping to rest the remainder of the afternoon and evening and calm her nerves. Zion hadn’t objected all that much. One of the axles could use some repair. The former slave had