The Quantro Story Read Free Page B

effortlessly. He bent over the first mule and reached down for the long lead rein, then wheeled his pony, gently prodding him in the ribs with the heels of his moccasins.
    Together, they rode up to the rim of the hollow that had provided the night’s shelter and faced the open desert.

CHAPTER 2
    Quantro’s eyes opened, startled, and he blinked in the bright sunlight. He realized he had passed out when he had tried to move. How long had he been out? He checked the sun and found it was another hour higher in the morning sky and the buzzard, his only companion apart from the constant pain, was beginning to close in. Quantro thought with anguish he might look dead from up there, but down here was another game altogether. The hungry bird only made him more determined to survive.
    He tried to move his legs again. The bum one had set stiff during the night, the joint completely jammed up. He uttered a curse on the fool of a doctor who had set it for him, and as he lay in the dust, choking on his swelling tongue, he retraced his memories to the man who had broken it for him in the first place.
    And the day it happened.
    ***
    Quantro was eighteen years old, and it was a fine day. He was out in the north pasture with Sonny and Jay, rounding up the new calves for branding. His face was covered with the dust thrown up by flailing hooves, and his nostrils were full of the stench of burning hide as the red hot iron left its mark on the flank of each calf, declaring the ownership of the BAR-Q-BAR ranch. The tough quarter horse was about blown and his own throat was parched from cutting out and chasing the obstinate critters. He decided to let Sonny handle the cutting chore for a while and ride down to the ranch house where his mother would have coffee and some food ready. He reined in at the fire where Jay was heating the irons and told him where he was going. As he rode away Sonny shouted not to be long with the food because he was as hungry as a bear.
    Quantro rode into the yard and saw four strange horses tied to the hitching rail. His inquisitive cowman’s eyes looked first to their rumps. Three of the horses bore brands he’d never seen before and the fourth carried a crudely altered cavalry brand. Puzzled, he dismounted and walked up the steps, wondering who the callers were. Maybe they’d come to buy stock.
    He was half way to the door when it swung open and he found himself looking down the barrel of a .44 Winchester. The man who so purposefully held the weapon was an evil looking, thin faced man, a half breed dressed in Mexican style bell bottomed pants. His boots carried big rowelled California spurs, and his gun belt and hatband were decorated with silver conchos, as bright as the wicked blade of the bowie knife that appeared in his left hand. Quantro’s eyes flickered from the knife to the rifle when its owner prodded his belt buckle with the barrel.
    â€œDrop it. Slowly, amigo .”
    There didn’t seem to be much choice. Quantro carefully unfastened his gun belt and let it fall to the planking.
    The half-breed stood aside and gestured with the rifle for Quantro to precede him into the house. When Quantro was inside the rifleman bent down and picked up the discarded weapon, then followed him in.
    Three other pistoleros were ranged around the big living room, laughing and swilling whiskey from his father’s stocks. They were all dirty and unshaven and their clothes were in disrepair. One was eating meat from a wooden platter with his fingers, taking great delight in sucking noisily at his rotten teeth and using a sharp knife to dig out the shreds of meat that clung in the crevices. He was a swarthy man and his buckskin shirt was greasy while the smell that rose from him was almost inhuman.
    Another pistolero was sitting with his chair tilted back against the wall, a navy Colt aimed negligently across the room. Alone of the four, he wore a ripped and dusty Cavalry shirt and breeches to match,