the Shadow Riders (1982) Read online

  "He'll stop at nothing to make a dollar. The last year he was at sea they say he flew the flag of Chile, had a Letter of Marque from them, or something. And it was said he took forty prizes.

  "Several different countries had ships out hunting him, so he ups and disappears. Seemed to drop right off the edge of the world, but he done no such thing. He come here to Texas, bought him a ranch, and hid his ship in Mission Bay. He knew every hideout along the coast, and he always kept to shallow-draft ships that could sail in less water than it would take to float a tea-cup, so nobody could foller where he went."

  "They find him?" Mac asked.

  "Never did. If they'd have found him they'd have hung him, but while they are scouring the seas hunting him, he's ranching in Texas, cool as you please."

  "Was he a Confederate sympathizer?"

  "Him? He never did anything unless it paid him. He scoffed at the South. He seemed to like Southern folks and their ways, but he thought they were foolish to go to war. I hear he did some blockade runnin', but who knows?"

  Mac looked at Happy Jack. "Why do you think Kate did a good thing in tryin' to get them together?"

  "Look at it. Martin Connery could steal the suspenders off Ashford's shoulders without him knowing they were gone. He'll see right through Ashford.

  "Ashford may talk like a patriot, and he may even think he is, but actually the man's a thief and a highbinder, only he isn't in Martin Connery's class.

  "Connery will see right through him, and Ashford will be lucky to get away with his pants. You just wait an' see. Ashford's using his loyalty to the Confederacy as an excuse to steal and cheat. What kind of a man would sell decent women into slavery? Connery's a fighter and a pirate, but there was never anything penny-ante about him. He laid it on the line and played the cards he was dealt, and off the bottom of the deck if he was doing the dealing."

  One by one they rolled in their blankets and slept while the rain fell unceasing. Wind worried around the eaves, rattled a broken branch across the shingles, and blew rain in the broken door, which had been merely propped in place.

  Out in the forest a tree, weakened by years of buffeting, finally collapsed and fell. The sound disturbed no one.

  Only when the first daylight came did they open their eyes. Mac slipped out of his blankets and started a fire, shoving the coffee-pot close to the coals and adding water.

  Tip-toeing to the door, he peered out. It was still raining, but scarcely more than a drizzle now. The door of the stable was still closed. Nonetheless, he felt uneasy. Returning to the fire he tugged on his boots and slung his belt around his hips with the holster containing the Remington.

  Dipping up some water with a gourd dipper, he emptied it into an old wash-pan and bathed his face and hands, drying them on his shirt, which he then put on.

  Again he went to the door. "Dal?" he spoke over his shoulder. "Better get movin'. I've got an uneasy feelin'."

  Happy Jack walked to the fire and tugged on his boots. "Coflee smells good. You checked the horses?"

  "I'm going to saddle up now." He donned his coat and took up the Spencer .52, slinging the Quick-Loader over his shoulder.

  The limited supplies they had brought along on the spare horse from the Atherton place were nearly gone, so they split the remainder into four packs, and Jesse rigged a saddle from some blankets and straps.

  The rain had eased somewhat, but the earth was soggy, and the trees dripped heavy drops into the muck below. Mac thrust his spare pistol behind his belt, eyes busy on the trees.

  The situation worried him. He did not like remaining too long in one place, for fear of discovery. Their smoke was unlikely to be seen in the rain, yet there was the chance.

  Mounting up, Mac led the way through the trees toward the south. Happy Jack closed up on him and riding abreast said, "We've got to watch ourselves. There's a peninsula runs out into the bay somewhere along here, and if we get out on it we're stuck."

  The rain ceased falling, and there was no sound in the woods but that of their horses' hoofs. Mac tried to think ahead, to find an opening, a chance to rescue the girls without getting themselves killed. If anything happened to them, the girls would be condemned to a life of misery and cruelty.

  Suppose Ashford swallowed the bait Kate had offered? Suppose he left his wagons and most of his men and rode south to Martin Connery's ranch? He would certainly take Kate with him, but the others would be left behind. Yet could Ashford trust his men to leave the girls alone in his absence?

  How many men would he take with him, leaving how many behind?

  Happy Jack had fallen back, as it was strictly a single-file trail. Now he called in a low voice.

  "Mac? The brush is thinnin' out! Ride careful!"

  Mac drew up, and when they stopped they listened. A faint yell came to them, then a whip-crack, almost like a pistol shot in the silence after the storm. Mac waited, watching and listening, not daring to move lest their movement be detected. Beyond the trees and brush, thin in places, could be seen the shadowy movements of the caravan wending its way across a wide open space leading to the beach.

  Mac used his glass. Ashford was still with them, riding well out in front with four other men. These Mac studied, as one of them might well be the second in command, who must be dealt with.

  "Jack? How far away is Connery's place?"

  "Ain't more'n ten mile, I'd say. Maybe less. Right ahead of us there's a bay, round as the moon. They call it one thing or another; mostly nowadays its called Mission Bay. Martin Connery's place is just beyond. He keeps a schooner anchored in the bay in case he has to get away to sea again." If that was true, then the chances were that Ashford would go into camp on the beach and wait for the ship he expected, and he might seize the chance to ride south and see Martin Connery.

  "They're stoppin'," Jesse said. "I see the girls gettin' out."

  Chapter Eleven.

  When the wagons stopped, Kate Connery peered out to see a wide white beach sloping very slightly toward the Gulf. She had only the vaguest idea of where she was and was totally unfamiliar with the area. Martin Connery lived somewhere to the south, how for she was not sure.

  She had seen her uncle but once, when she was a small girl, and she remembered him only as a somewhat frightening but romantic figure of a man who gave orders like a cracking whip and tolerated no disobedience, or even hesitation.

  He had about him an air of command, and he strode like he was walking his own quarterdeck.

  The man named Butler came by and scratched on the canvas. "You can get out if you like," he said. "Stretch your legs a mite. Looks like we might be here quite a spell."

  "Thank you." Butler was a man of thirty-five, and there was about him a sense of one who had seen better times and who knew how to conduct himself. "When you make some coffee might we have some?"

  "Certainly, ma'am, I shall see to it."

  He walked his horse away, and one by one they got down from the wagon. Across the neck of the bay on which they were, loomed another shore, perhaps two or three miles away. It was a low shore with a few scattered trees.

  "Stay close to the wagon," Kate advised.

  "Can't we go down to the water? I'd like to wash my hands," Gretchen asked.

  "Wait. Maybe they will let us, but the less attention we attract the better."

  "I wonder where the boys are?" Dulcie asked.

  "Jesse got away, at least," Kate said. "I think they were glad to be rid of him."

  "Do you suppose he will find them?"

  "Of course."

  Yet she was not all that sure. How could he find them in all the wet forest? How far could he travel, weak as he was and without a horse?

  For all she knew Jesse might be ... out there in the forest now, dead or dying. He seemed to have gotten away, but how could they be sure? If one of these men killed him he might not even comment on it. They had already shown themselves to be very casual about killing, and she was beginning to believe that under his facade Ashford
was as bad as the others. He considered himself a patriot and a gentleman, but what kind of a gentleman would kidnap young girls and plan to sell them into slavery? Yet as long as he wore the cloak of a gentleman he might behave like one, and without him they had nothing.

  Butler? She did not know about Butler. Would he help? Was he too loyal to Ashford or to the Cause? Or would he take the risk of helping them escape?

  Escape to where? Where could they go? They were miles and miles from home, and they were out on a flat white beach with only a tangle of forest and undergrowth behind the beach. There was no place to which they could run, nobody to ask for help.

  Martin Connery? Her feeling was that Connery would have nothing but contempt for Ashford, but she wasn't sure. Nor did she know how many men he had or whether he would try to help her.

  Why should he? He had never seemed to care for his family, and certainly none of them cared for him. He was, to their thinking, a black sheep. He had strayed from the fold, and as far as the family was concerned he could stay there. Yet ...

  It was a forlorn hope but the only one she had. That and whatever the boys might do.

  The sun was warm, and the glare off the sand caused them to squint. Two men sat out on the beach between them and the water, rifles across their knees. Some others had taken the horses and oxen and were leading them toward some grass at the edge of the trees. Several cooking fires had been started, and she could smell coffee.

  Ashford was coming toward her. She got up, brushing off her dress, putting a strand of hair in place. He stopped before her, feet apart, staring. "You're quite a woman, Kate, and you've got brains, too. We'd make a team, you and I."

  "I am not a soldier."

  He chuckled. "Of course not, but you have brains."

  The smile left his face. "This uncle of yours? He was a Southern sympathizer?"

  "I am sure that was where his sympathies lay." Then to offer something more to Ashford's taste, she added, "He was, I believe, a blockade runner."

  "Ah?"

  It was a wild card she was playing, a pitiful gamble against impossible odds. Martin Connery had never shown the slightest interest in any of his family, and there was no reason why he should now. By leading these renegades to him she might be endangering his life, but somehow, some way, she must save the girls from what lay before them.

  What she was offering Ashford was the chance of an alliance, and if that failed, the prospect of loot. That he was considering both possibilities she was sure, and if she remembered her uncle correctly he was perfectly capable of handling Ashford.

  What right had she to risk her uncle's life to save herself and the others? Exactly none at all. But there was no alternative.

  Ashford stared out over the bay, considering. She had, she believed, detected some uneasiness in him, perhaps about the expected ship. Was its arrival uncertain? Or did he not trust those with whom he would be dealing? At least, she had offered another possibility.

  "Colonel Ashford? The girls would like to bathe their hands and feet. Might we go to the water?"

  "Of course. But no tricks, understand? And please, offer my men no temptations. Discipline is a delicate matter now that the War is over. We must tread carefully." Then he smiled. "If temptation is offered, let it be to me. I can handle it better."

  "Thank you." She walked to the girls and explained. Ashford called to the guards and told them to allow the girls to go to the edge of the water, no farther. And no straying to right or left.

  When they were at the water's edge and had washed a bit she gathered them together on the sand, out of hearing of the guards. Carefully, she explained what she had done, clarifying points that might have been left unclear.

  "So he may want me to ride away with him, to go to visit Uncle Martin ..."

  "Mother always said he was a devil," Dulcie insisted.

  "At least he's our devil, or I hope he is. What other chance do we have? The boys may be able to help us, but they are so few, and what can they do?"

  "When will you go?"

  "I've no idea. He may decide not to go, and we might go at once. There's something he does not like about the ship that is coming in. Perhaps he doesn't trust those on the ship."

  "I wish Mac and Dal would come," Gretchen said. "I'm so tired of all this! I want to go home!"

  "We all do, but there's no help for it now."

  "But why did it happen to us?" Gretchen was near tears.

  "We were in the way, there's no other answer. I doubt they had any such plans, but then riding south they decided to raid your ranch, and there we were. They may be thinking of selling us into slavery, but they may change their minds and do whatever they wish to do right here. We have to be prepared for that. But remember - the boys are out there in the woods, and some one of them is watching, you can be sure of that. If the worst comes they would come in shooting, you can be sure of it."

  "They'd be killed!"

  "I think they are prepared to run that risk. We will just have to wait."

  Under the glaring sun the beach was hot and white, the sky overhead a misty blue, misty with rising heat. Turning from where they were seated on the sand they could look back at the wagons, stark and still against the skyline.

  Kate knew she must keep cool, she must think, think, think! Somewhere there was an answer. There had to be.

  "I wonder where the boys are?" Dulcie said. "I wonder where they are right now?"

  Mac lay on his belly on a low sand-hill covered with stunted brush. It was an unlikely place for a man to hide, but good for that very reason. What he needed was a good view of Ashford's camp, such as it was.

  They had simply drawn up their wagons on the sand and corralled the horses close by. The oxen had been led out on the grass no more than sixty yards from where Mac lay.

  There were seven girls and women down there, Mac thought, Kate, Dulcie, Gretchen, Mrs. Atherton, and three whom he did not know. They had walked down to the edge of the water now and were bathing their hands and feet and faces. Several were making an effort to comb their hair, which had become tangled and messy. Kate was sitting with the Atherton woman. At least, he guessed it was she. The age was about right.

  There were two guards on the beach about thirty yards from the girls. There were several other men gathered around a blanket, playing cards. A couple who were probably cooks were preparing food. He counted fifteen men ... there should be more.

  Had some eluded him? Were they out in the woods now, trying to track down the Travens? There had been times, of course, when their observation of the Ashford group had been less than perfect. Occasionally during the storm they had been hiding out or seeking shelter, and they had to prepare food from time to time.

  Well, Mac reflected, until something happened, that chore would bother them no longer. Their limited supplies were gone except for a smidgeon of coffee.

  The nearest town was probably Refugio, but whatever happened here would happen soon, and they dared not risk letting one man ride into town and back, which could take the better part of a day.

  Mac, watching the men before him, trying to get a count, had reached his position too late to see Sam Hall go into the brush.

  Sam was a big, burly man, and he was collecting wood for the cooking fires. He had gathered an armful of dry wood and was walking back, following a game trail toward the shore, when he saw a boot-track, and it was fresh.

  The track was obviously made since the rain, and a blade of grass was just rising from where it had been crushed down. Sam knew that might take minutes, but not much longer. Probably less than an hour, more likely less than half that time. Sam Hall put down his armful of wood, taking great care to make no sound.

  When the wood was on the sand he straightened very slowly. He was within a hundred yards of the wagons. Whoever had made that track had to be very close. Ashford had been worried about the Travens. Well, in less than a minute there'd be one less.

  Sam Hall had come from Ohio, was wanted there for murder,
and had fled to the South and joined the Army. He was a man to whom killing and violence came naturally. Had it been left to him they'd have had those women long since, and they'd never have wasted time carting that wounded Jesse Traven around. He'd have knocked him in the head when caught. No use wasting a bullet.

  He was prepared to use one now, and to not waste it. Lifting the flap of his holster without making a sound, he drew his pistol. He wanted to ease back the hammer but decided against it. The click might warn the man he was hunting.

  Suppose there was more than one? Well, he had seen but one track, and it was unlikely there'd be more this close. Also, he was going to start shooting before anyone saw him. He would have the advantage.

  Sam was in thick brush, only the narrow trail winding through it. Directly before him was a dead tree trunk, the bark falling away from it, and some thirty yards further on was a low hummock of sand covered with brush. That was it, that was where Traven would be hiding.

  He took a careful step, then another. He was sweating. The sun was hot, of course. He mopped his brow with the hand holding the pistol, and light glinted from the barrel.

  Mac Traven, lying in the brush, caught a faint flicker of that movement but was not alarmed. It could have been a drop of rain still clinging to a leaf. It could have been ...

  Sam Hall stepped over the log, putting his foot down carefully. As he did so he saw Mac Traven not twenty feet away, lying on his belly in the sand. He lifted his pistol and let the weight down on the boot that had stepped over the log. Under the sand and out of sight was a small branch. As his weight came down the branch broke and Mac Traven whipped around like a cat. Sam Hall's gun was up and the hammer coming back when something struck him a wicked blow in the chest, and then he heard a gun-shot.

  Sam Hall took a half step back as his own gun went off, kicking sand three feet from Traven, who was coming toward him. Sam tried to lift his pistol again but his fingers were numb.

  As Traven came face to face with him he felt the pistol slip from his hand. He said, "I guess you hit me."

  "I guess I did," Mac said, and went by him, ducking into the brush. Within minutes there would be men all over, hunting him.