Warriors of the Night Read Free Page A

Obregon.” No one in San Antonio, save her brother and Carmelita, knew her real identity, knew that Anabel was the daughter of Don Luis Cordero de Tosta, the tiger of Coahuila, whose death cried vengeance from the grave.
    “Pleased to meet you,” Ben said. He removed his cap and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. He thick red mane was plastered to his skull. His blue flannel uniform was unbearably hot, and the spiny thickets that dotted every hillside and choked the gulleys had played havoc with his trouser legs.
    Ben McQueen scrunched his big-boned, six-foot-four-inch frame down behind the rocks and tried to take stock of the situation. He knew Choctaw, Cherokee, and Creek, the legacy of a youth spent in the Indian territory. But of the Comanches he had only heard rumor and tall tales since disembarking in Galveston. The squat, leathery warriors gathered in the road below were providing his first encounter. If only the soldiers he had left to escort retired Gen. Matthew Abbot into San Antonio were here… No, of what use was blame? Flights of fantasy weren’t going to see him through this. It would take powder and shot and cold steel, not to mention nerve and a wagonload of luck. He felt a hollow pit form in his stomach and struggled to ignore the sensation. He concentrated on seeing that his weapons were loaded and primed. He couldn’t help but notice the practiced ease with which Anabel bit open the paper cartridges and loaded the twin barrels of her shotgun. She sensed his interest and shifted her dark-eyed gaze.
    “What is it?”
    Ben’s square-jawed features split with a grin. He wiped a hand across his stubbled jaw and with a wry look told her.
    “There’s some ladies in Philadelphia that would be most impressed by your talents.”
    “A woman must be able to do more than braid her hair and wear silk dresses to live here,” Anabel remarked with disdain. She worked a metal ramrod down each barrel, tamping the loads in place. Her riding skirt was torn at the hem and her black boots were scuffed. The boulder felt warm against her back. The hill rose gradually for another twenty-five feet before playing out beneath a sheer wall of limestone too steep to climb. To reach the crest they’d have to follow the contour of the hill around to where the cliff had eroded and broken off into rubble. The hill was slowly being reclaimed by mesquite trees, whose twisted roots and branches seemed able to thrive in even the most arid of soils and most precipitous conditions. Unfortunately, any attempt to climb the remaining slope would require crossing open ground.
    Ben removed his blue cap and slowly eased himself onto his knees. He set aside his saber and carbine and edged around the barricade that nature had provided for them and, once in place, studied the war party. The warriors in the distance were framed by the spiny pads of a prickly pear cactus. The Comanches had started to backtrack, but had yet to pick up any sign of their prey. The ground was so hard-packed and broken, Ben doubted he and the señorita had left any tracks for the war party to follow. His hopes began to rise. He crawled back behind the rocks and crouched alongside Anabel.
    “I think we’re safe here,” he whispered with confidence.
    Then he saw the rattler.
    It was a big diamondback, six feet of coldblooded nightmare thick as Ben’s forearm, and devil-nasty. The rattlesnake had been sunning itself on a ledge above them. Something had disturbed the reptile and caused it to retreat downhill. Ben didn’t care about the creature’s reasons, only its immediacy. The rattlesnake noticed the two intruders blocking its path and coiled itself within striking distance. Charcoal-gray and black, with black and white bands at its buzzing tail, the rattler continued to warn the humans in an attempt to drive them away. The rattler’s mouth opened once to reveal a pair of poison-drenched fangs as Ben tossed a handful of pebbles in its direction, hoping to