one man riding, three walking, probably taking turns with the horse. Ahead and on the right there was a farm. Smoke rose from the chimney, but the corral was empty.
Dal was looking better as they got further away from the low country near the river. The air was better, and if nothing happened to change things he would be himself again.
Mac thought about Kate. Kate was quite a woman, although she and Dal had never actually become engaged. If Dal had been reported dead, what would she do? Wait a decent interval and find herself another man. Had Dal considered that?
The trail ahead dipped into woods along the creek. Mac Traven carried two pistols, the one in his holster and a spare in his waist-band, but it was the Spencer he preferred. Army issue was .52 calibre, and it packed a wallop. He slid the Spencer from the saddle scabbard and held it in his hands as they rode into the woods.
They were seeing fewer soldiers now. This was Indian country, and those Indians who had fought on one side or the other lived further east.
On the next morning Mac killed a deer in the river bottom, and they held up a day to smoke the meat, eating venison steaks while waiting for the smoke to do its job. "We're gettin' close," Dal said. "I remember the time we rode north a buffalo huntin' an' camped by this same stream."
"If we're lucky we'll make it some time tomorrow."
Yet when afternoon came great thunderheads were piling up in the sky ahead of them, and they could hear a distant rumble of thunder.
"Rain," Dal said irritably. "We could do without that!"
Mac pushed on ahead. Unless they got under cover in a hurry they were in for a soaking. He topped out on a low rise and saw a roof-top ahead and off to one side of the dim track they were following.
The clouds were over-head now, and he could see a broadening white streak along the horizon. When that reached them it would be raining. "Come on!" he yelled and charged down the slope, Dal following.
There was a corral with the gate bars down, the corral empty. There was a small barn and a log cabin. No smoke came from the chimney, but there was a stack of cut wood against the near wall of the cabin.
No tracks led into the place, which only meant nobody had been there since the last rain. He swung down. "Dal? You take the horses while I scout the cabin."
Dal caught the reins of Mac's horse and started toward the barn.
Mac hesitated, then rapped on the door. The sound echoed hollowly, but there was no response. He tried the door, and it gave under his hand. He stepped inside. "Anybody home?" he asked, but the room was empty.
A fire-place, a bed, a bench, and one chair. Cooking pans, polished and clean but dust covered, hung in place. There was a table covered with oil-cloth and the remains of a candle that had burned down to only a pool of melted wax, and little of that except what had dripped down to the mantle.
There was a door to another room, covered with a hanging blanket. He looked around again, listening for Dal.
Somebody had been living here. He looked again at the curtain and spoke aloud again. "Anybody home?"
There was a roll of thunder, closer now, and he heard running feet outside. Then the door burst open. It was Dal. He ducked inside just as the rain came, and it came with a thundering roar.
Dal glanced around, then he glanced at the blanket-curtain. "You been in there?"
"No ... not yet. What's in the barn?"
"Three head of good horses, half starved. I forked some hay for them."
Reluctantly, Mac crossed to the blanket, gathered the edge as Dal drew a pistol.
Abruptly, he drew back the blanket.
There was a window at the side, and there was a bed, a chair, and a large chest for storing clothes. And in the bed there was a child ... a girl.
She was sitting up in bed, clutching a rag doll. Her hair was touseled and blond.
"Hello! Are you my Daddy?"
Chapter Three.
Mac Traven was startled. "Me? No, missy, I'm afraid not. Don't you know your own father?"
"No, sir. He
Dal was looking better as they got further away from the low country near the river. The air was better, and if nothing happened to change things he would be himself again.
Mac thought about Kate. Kate was quite a woman, although she and Dal had never actually become engaged. If Dal had been reported dead, what would she do? Wait a decent interval and find herself another man. Had Dal considered that?
The trail ahead dipped into woods along the creek. Mac Traven carried two pistols, the one in his holster and a spare in his waist-band, but it was the Spencer he preferred. Army issue was .52 calibre, and it packed a wallop. He slid the Spencer from the saddle scabbard and held it in his hands as they rode into the woods.
They were seeing fewer soldiers now. This was Indian country, and those Indians who had fought on one side or the other lived further east.
On the next morning Mac killed a deer in the river bottom, and they held up a day to smoke the meat, eating venison steaks while waiting for the smoke to do its job. "We're gettin' close," Dal said. "I remember the time we rode north a buffalo huntin' an' camped by this same stream."
"If we're lucky we'll make it some time tomorrow."
Yet when afternoon came great thunderheads were piling up in the sky ahead of them, and they could hear a distant rumble of thunder.
"Rain," Dal said irritably. "We could do without that!"
Mac pushed on ahead. Unless they got under cover in a hurry they were in for a soaking. He topped out on a low rise and saw a roof-top ahead and off to one side of the dim track they were following.
The clouds were over-head now, and he could see a broadening white streak along the horizon. When that reached them it would be raining. "Come on!" he yelled and charged down the slope, Dal following.
There was a corral with the gate bars down, the corral empty. There was a small barn and a log cabin. No smoke came from the chimney, but there was a stack of cut wood against the near wall of the cabin.
No tracks led into the place, which only meant nobody had been there since the last rain. He swung down. "Dal? You take the horses while I scout the cabin."
Dal caught the reins of Mac's horse and started toward the barn.
Mac hesitated, then rapped on the door. The sound echoed hollowly, but there was no response. He tried the door, and it gave under his hand. He stepped inside. "Anybody home?" he asked, but the room was empty.
A fire-place, a bed, a bench, and one chair. Cooking pans, polished and clean but dust covered, hung in place. There was a table covered with oil-cloth and the remains of a candle that had burned down to only a pool of melted wax, and little of that except what had dripped down to the mantle.
There was a door to another room, covered with a hanging blanket. He looked around again, listening for Dal.
Somebody had been living here. He looked again at the curtain and spoke aloud again. "Anybody home?"
There was a roll of thunder, closer now, and he heard running feet outside. Then the door burst open. It was Dal. He ducked inside just as the rain came, and it came with a thundering roar.
Dal glanced around, then he glanced at the blanket-curtain. "You been in there?"
"No ... not yet. What's in the barn?"
"Three head of good horses, half starved. I forked some hay for them."
Reluctantly, Mac crossed to the blanket, gathered the edge as Dal drew a pistol.
Abruptly, he drew back the blanket.
There was a window at the side, and there was a bed, a chair, and a large chest for storing clothes. And in the bed there was a child ... a girl.
She was sitting up in bed, clutching a rag doll. Her hair was touseled and blond.
"Hello! Are you my Daddy?"
Chapter Three.
Mac Traven was startled. "Me? No, missy, I'm afraid not. Don't you know your own father?"
"No, sir. He
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