Sidewinder

Table of Contents

 

 

Toad was puffing on a cheroot. Freddie was spitting tobacco juice. Neither man was looking in Brad’s direction when he drew his pistol and stepped in front of them. He pulled his rattles out with his left hand and shook them.

Both men stopped in their tracks.

“What the hell . . .” Toad said.

Then he heard the click of the Colt in Brad’s hand as he cocked the trigger.

“Who in hell are you?” Toad demanded, jerking the cheroot from his mouth.

“They call me Sidewinder,” Brad said and shook the rattles again.

He watched both men as the color drained from their faces . . .

THE VIGILANTE
THE VIGILANTE: SIX-GUN LAW
THE VIGILANTE: SANTA FE SHOWDOWN

 

THE DARK LAND
SUNSET RIDER
TEXAS DUST
BLOOD RIVER
THE SAVAGE GUN
THE SUNDOWN MAN
THE SAVAGE TRAIL
THE SAVAGE CURSE
SIDEWINDER

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SIDEWINDER

 

A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

 

PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley edition / December 2009

Copyright © 2009 by Jory Sherman.

 

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The cattle were scattered amid the burned ruins of a cabin, with its stone chimney stark against the sky, its upper bricks crumbled into dust, and rubble at its base. The corrals were all jumbled wreckage, scrambled pine poles ripped from their moorings and scorched like the logs of the cabin.

Brad Storm, a tall, rugged man with flaxen hair, blue eyes as hard as sapphires, a square jaw, a soft crease dimpling the center of his chin, and the strong, supple hands of a wood-carver or a violinist, reined up his horse, a strawberry roan gelding with a splotchy white blaze on its forehead. The rider with him, his helper, Julio Aragon, halted his horse, a six-year-old pinto he called Chato. Julio had the high cheekbones of an Indian ancestor, the faint vermilion of his bloodlines coloring his cheeks, a bent nose that had once been straight. Coal black eyes glittered like polished agates in their sockets, and his black curly hair streamed down his neck and flared over his shoulders like downy oil.

“What is this place, Julio?” Brad asked.

A shadow passed across Julio’s face, but it was not from any cloud or leafy tree branch. It was the shade of remembrance, and there was a wince in his features as the memory blossomed into life just beyond the flat bronze plate of his forehead.

“This was where Alberto Seguin once lived,” Julio said, and there was a tinge of sadness in his voice. “Before you came here. He raised cattle. Big herd. Many head.”

“What happened?” Brad asked.

Julio hung his head and shook it slowly from side to side. His hand on his saddle horn tightened until the veins stood out like worms under beige sand.

“The rustlers. Bad men from Oro City, I think. They stole all his cattle. Alberto fought them. They killed him, his wife, and two sons. They burned down his house and the corrals. The barn you can no longer see. It was only ashes, and they blew away in the wind.”

“Damn. A shame. Anyone ever catch the rustlers?”

A steely look came into Julio’s eyes and his jaw tightened until Brad could see the pulse in his left jawbone.

“The rustlers still ride. They still steal.”

“Here? Where?”

“All over. No one catches them. No one ever catches them. They been stealing since before they called the territory Colorado and made it a state.”

“Why?” Brad knew that Colorado had become a state only two years before, in 1876.

“There are many graves of those who tried to catch them, Brad.”

“Maybe I better start guarding my cattle.”

“You do not have enough yet to interest them. They look for the big herds. Five hundred to one thousand head, maybe.”

Brad was just starting out as a cattle rancher. He had only two hundred head, plus a few yearlings. He had a breeding bull and a few brood cows. He planned on having many more. Beef was at a premium in the mining camps scattered throughout the Rockies.

A fresh breeze whiffled through the burned timbers of the house and set up a soft keening as if voices rose whispering from the dead. He felt a spider crawl up his spine and shook off the feeling.

“When your cows are already fat,” Julio said, “and your herd is big, so the rustlers will come. They will come in the night and you will not see them.”

“I’ll be damned if they will, Julio. Everything I own is in those cows I have.”

“That is of no import to the thieves.”

“No, but hot lead will be.”

“Ah, you are one man. They are many.”

“I have you. At least I think I do.”

“Two men against many.” Julio crossed himself, and Brad heard him murmur, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” under his breath in Spanish.

“We’ll see,” Brad said. He looked over at the scattered cows. He began to count.

“We’re one short,” he said.

“Yes, the brindle cow. She is carrying a calf.”

“You have a good eye.”

“She was one of those that wandered off with these.”

“She’s probably in the timber.”

“Maybe,” Julio said, and there was the leaden weight of doubt in his voice. Cattle were herd animals, Brad knew, and it was unlikely the brindle cow had wandered out of sight and smell of the others.

Brad knew the cow was not in the timber, would not venture into that dark region alone. She should be with the other cattle, battling with them over the best graze. He knew her nature. He had studied her for nigh on to a year. She was big boned, wide hipped, with sturdy legs and plenty of muscle on her bones, the kind of cow that would produce sound calves that would grow into valuable beef cattle.

So, where was she?

“Gather ’em up, Julio, and run ’em back home. I’m going to look for the brindle.”

“You no want me to help?”

“No, you go on. I’ll track her down.”

“Yes, boss,” Julio said.

Brad frowned. He’d told Julio a hundred times not to call him “boss.” He didn’t want a title for himself, and the term implied a difference in social stations he didn’t like. He thought of Julio as an equal, not as a man subservient to him. He waved a hand at Julio and turned his horse, craning his neck to the left in order to study the tracks on the ground.

It did not take Brad long to find the place where the brindle separated herself from the other cattle. She had wandered, nipping grass with her teeth, heading away from the other cows at an angle. It was when the tracks led him to a lush patch of grass near the edge of the timber that he saw the other tracks, and the sight of them sent an ice water shiver up his spine.

There was no mistaking the tracks of the brindle cow. She was bigger than the other yearlings that had strayed, and heavier. Her hooves had sunk deep into the moist earth around the grass. But, it was the other tracks that sent spiders crawling up his back.

A wolf track, still fresh, crisscrossed the cow tracks, and from its stride, Brad figured it was a timber wolf and would measure nine feet from tail tip to snout.

He turned to yell out his find to Julio, but he saw only the crown of the man’s hat as he and the strays disappeared off the tabletop. Brad drew in a breath and listened to the soft sough of the wind in the pines and spruce and junipers. He was alone, and one of his cows was in trouble.