41

The arroyo was narrow, with steep sides of soft sand. The group slid as much as they rode to the bottom. The sand was churned with so many tracks, Michael couldn’t distinguish one from another. Sheriff Davis and Old Thomas studied the ground.

Old Thomas stood from a squat. “Several riders have come through here recently.”

“I can see that.” The sheriff rubbed the back of his neck. “Y’know, part of me just wants to ride right in there. This bein’ slow and cautious is wearin’ on all of us.” He turned to Michael. “If that God of yours is still up there, you’d better pray He gives me patience.”

Michael said nothing. This was not the time to give Sheriff Davis a lesson on the existence of God.

The sheriff turned back to Old Thomas. “Do you recognize any of them?”

Old Thomas didn’t speak. He walked slowly along the bottom edge of the slope, careful not to disturb any of the tracks. “They are right on top of each other, so it is hard to tell. All are heading for the creek, though. None are heading toward us. I believe I see at least one of the horses we have been following. Others look familiar, but I am not sure.”

“All right. Let’s keep goin’.”

They headed off in single file with Old Thomas in the lead and the sheriff right behind. Michael rode next, with Frank behind him. Michael heard Jeremiah, at the rear of the line, slide his rifle from its scabbard. Michael glanced over his shoulder and saw the weapon resting across the saddle. Jeremiah scanned the top of the arroyo.

They rode in silence, the soft sand muffling the horses’ hoofbeats. The only sounds were the creaking of saddles, the jingle of bits, and an occasional snort when one of the horses blew air through its nostrils.

Tension was a knot between Michael’s shoulders. No amount of twisting or stretching could relax it. He watched the top of the arroyo. What a perfect place for an ambush.

No breeze disturbed the air or cooled their skin. The washed-out blue band of sky above the arroyo was cloudless. The riders pulled their hats low, squinting against the glare. The air smelled burnt and dry.

Sweat ran through Michael’s hair, down his face and neck. It found its way under his shirt to trickle down his back. His bath at the hotel seemed a lifetime ago. He smiled at the thought of the steaming water, the lilac aroma of the soap, and the softness of the towels. He knew he stank, and only the thought that everyone else smelled the same kept him from being embarrassed. He was grateful Rachel couldn’t see or smell him now.

He thought of her, the brightness of her smile, her shining hair, the gentle touch of her slender fingers, the honesty of her eyes. She was so beautiful, so brave. If only—

A buzzing sound broke through his reverie. The sheriff’s horse reared, sending her rider tumbling to the ground, and Buddy jumped at the commotion. Michael heard Jeremiah cock his rifle. Sheriff Davis put one hand out to stop him and his other hand to his mouth to silence them. The buzzing sound continued.

A few feet up the slope, a rattlesnake raised its head, tail rattling, eyes focused on the sheriff.

No one moved. The snake’s tongue darted in and out, and the rattle increased its vibrations. The snake pulled itself into a tighter coil, its eyes still riveted on Sheriff Davis. Michael prayed silently, Father, protect him.

The sun glinted off a darting sliver of metal that flew from Old Thomas’s hand. The blade penetrated the skin below the snake’s broad head. The reptile writhed and thrashed, driving the blade even deeper. After a few moments, the snake lay still, its head almost severed.

The silence was the most deafening Michael had ever heard.

The sheriff seemed to shrink as he relaxed. He wiped his mouth with his hand. “Thank you, old friend. You saved my life.”

Old Thomas bowed his head. “You are most welcome, my friend. Obviously your time here is not over. The spirits guided my hand because the sun clouded my vision. I threw at the sound.”

Behind him, Michael heard Jeremiah. “We know what Spirit it was.”

The sheriff’s eyes flashed as he cast a quick glare in Jeremiah’s direction.

Old Thomas dismounted. He retrieved his knife, cleaned it in the sand, and slipped it into the sheath in his boot. Then he reached down and held up the snake’s drooping body. “Perhaps we should save it for our meal tonight. It tastes just like chicken.”

Michael’s stomach lurched.

Frank said, “I wouldn’t eat that thing if you pickled it in whiskey for a year.”

The sheriff took up the reins of his horse. “That might be the only whiskey Malachi wouldn’t drink. Let’s ride.”

They rode in silence. After a time, the meandering arroyo emptied into a lovely little creek bottom. After watering the horses and filling canteens, the posse followed the creek upstream, winding through the cottonwoods and live oak that hugged its bank. Through occasional breaks in the trees, they could see the circling carrion birds.

They kept the horses at a steady walk at the edge of the stream to minimize noise. A slight breeze cooled the back of Michael’s neck.

The sheriff whispered, “Breeze feels good, but it’ll carry our scent forward. We smell so bad it’ll let ’em know we’re comin’ half an hour ’fore we get there.”

They came to a bend, and Old Thomas motioned for them to halt. He slid to the ground, walked a short distance, and disappeared around the bend. The men waited in silence. Michael could see the tension in their faces and posture. Oh, Lord, let this end soon.

Time dragged. Restlessness churned in Michael. He could find no channel to release it.

The sound of someone running through water came from up ahead. The sheriff drew his pistol. Jeremiah cocked his rifle. Michael pulled his own rifle from its scabbard and levered a round into the chamber. Lord, don’t let me have to shoot anyone.

Old Thomas trotted round the bend. He mounted his horse and looked at the sheriff, grief etched in the lines of his face.

“Come. It is very bad.”