Trace
Bounty Hunters of Sunset Creek Ranch
Book 4
By
Patricia PacJac Carroll
Trace Logan eyed the six-gun aimed in his direction and wondered how he’d gotten himself in such a predicament. After his horse had stepped in a gopher hole, Trace had walked nearly ten miles carrying his saddle. Naturally, upon reaching the small town of Shade, the first stop had been the Long Drink Saloon. That had been his first mistake. Now he was face to face, make that gun, with Cyrus Goodman. Only there was nothing good about Goodman.
Cyrus waved the gun. “I’ll take back the money you robbed from me. You cheatin’ card sharp.”
If Goodman knew who he was really talking to, he’d put the gun down. But Trace didn’t want his whereabouts known. Slowly, Trace let his left-arm drop. He fished in his pocket, took out the hundred dollars he’d won in the game, and threw the money on the ground. “I won it fair, and you know it.”
“Maybe if your luck holds, I won’t shoot ya.” Cyrus’s cold dark eyes glittered with more hate than was warranted.
“You got your money. Leave me be.” Keeping the man’s stare engaged, Trace envisioned the surroundings. If he moved a few feet to the right, Trace could scramble down the alley. Shadows already loomed long over the street, providing cover, and he might be able to get away.
Cyrus looked down and reached for the gold coins.
Trace kicked a boot full of dirt into the poor sport’s eyes. Lunging forward, Trace grabbed the money, turned, and elbowed the startled Cyrus in the gut before running for the alley. The curses shouted behind spurred Trace toward the livery.
Charging through the backdoor, Trace jumped on a saddled horse and threw the hundred at the startled boy. “I’m buying this horse. Open the door. I’m in a hurry.”
“Don’t let that thief get away!” Cyrus’s gruff voice boomed outside the barn.
The kid, maybe sixteen, dropped a pitchfork full of hay, grinned at Trace, and flung open the door. “Run. Nobody much cares for Cyrus but ride that horse far and fast. It belongs to Cyrus’s brother, the sheriff.”
Trace tipped his hat and kicked the horse into a full gallop. Once out of the barn, he heard the door slam and then a shot.
Bending low over the horse’s neck, he dared not look back. Even now, townspeople were running toward the livery. Slapping the reins against the buckskin, he urged the gelding on. Once out of town, he turned west into the blinding light of the dying sun.
He pushed the horse harder than he dared. Then as the light slipped below the trees and darkness conquered the day, he let up. “Okay, Buckskin, you can walk now.” The horse snorted, nodding its head up and down.
Trace stopped in a thick grove of Aspen and listened. A mockingbird’s mellow song danced on the night air in a nearby bush as leaves clapped together in the soft breeze, but he heard no sound of riders. After a few minutes, he rode on, following the tree line. With luck, he could reach the Laramie River before any posse found his trail.
Clouds moved in taking the sweat out of the air while rumbles of thunder promised rain. Trace stopped, dismounted, and led the horse. After some time, he heard the soft gurgle of water flowing over rocks. “Here’s the river, Buckskin. Now we’ll just take a leisurely stroll in the water for a mile or two and keep a safe distance from that posse.”
The knee-high water cooled him. The heat, unexpected for April, had blistered the land and anything on it. He pulled his jacket about him as lightning flashed to the north, and a gentle rain pelted him. Trace stopped and mounted the tired house. Within minutes, sheets of rain poured from the angry sky, but he kept riding down the river.
After a loud explosion of thunder, the horse spooked, and Trace had to ride him hard to stay mid-stream. Water edged over the stirrup, then quickly rose over his boot. “You were right, flashflood. Let’s go, boy.” He kicked the horse toward the west bank.
The horse lunged, slid on the slick mud, and went down on his knees. Trace yanked on the reins, jerking the horse’s head out of the water. With a surge, the buckskin regained his footing. After another huge push of the animal’s hindquarters, the big horse lunged halfway up the slope. By now, the water licked over the buckskin’s shoulder. One more leap, and the gelding reached the top of the bank where Trace spurred him on until they were safe from the rising water.
Peering through the downpour, Trace spotted a tightly knit grove of trees and nudged the tired horse toward the shelter. He climbed off the gelding, shoved limbs aside, and led the animal into the thicket. “Fine mess I got myself into this time.” He patted the horse’s nose, pulled his jacket tight, and sat on a log. Tired, he leaned against the muscled shoulder of the buckskin, thankful for the heat from the animal.
Trace pushed his current troubles away to think of the reason he’d left his ranch. He needed a wife to keep the ranch in Sunset Creek. Well, he’d gone back to Texas to see about Lucinda and found her married to another man. He’d peered in the window and watched a stranger hug the one woman he’d ever loved.
But that was another life ago. One that he’d walked away from to seek his fortune as a bounty hunter. The years fighting in the war had hardened him and closed off his heart to feel, making his profession as a bounty hunter all too doable.
Trace shook his head. Who had he been kidding? There was no way back to being a good man. He was ruined. Maybe he could get a mail-order wife like Judd, but Trace didn’t want to marry a woman he didn’t know.
Then again, his life had been one big compromise, and Trace didn’t think there was any way to get back to a clean way of life. He’d given up bounty hunting, except that now, he’d just stolen a horse. How long would it take for him to become the hunted?
***
Light filtered through the leaves, causing Trace to jump. Morning? He stretched, keeping his senses alert and led the horse into the open. A fire would feel good, but he was too close to town. Maybe after he rode a few more miles. He rubbed his arms, trying to warm up as the storm had chased away the heat and left a chill.
Scanning the horizon, he looked for smoke but saw none. So far, so good. After letting the horse graze, Trace mounted up and headed north toward Sunset Creek Ranch, but right now, he just needed to get away from that crazy Cyrus.
As the sun rose, the day warmed. Trace drew in a deep breath of rain-cleansed air, letting the newness refresh him. Apparently, the buckskin felt the same as he met the day with a few sideways crow-hops. Trace let him frolic as each step took him farther from yesterday’s trouble.
Mid-morn, Trace rode over a small hill and spotted a rutted road, muddied from the past rain. He gazed up and down the lane but saw no sign of life. “East or west, Buckskin?” The horse pawed the ground, stretching his neck to nibble on new grass.
“All right, I choose west no thanks to you.” Trace reined the horse and let him trot alongside the road. There was no sense in putting a good set of prints in the mud.
After a few miles, Trace saw a bunch of hoof prints marking the road. By the looks of them, riders took to the road sometime last night after the rains stopped. But they didn’t come from Shade. Four riders all traveling at a fast speed. More than likely, someone else was in trouble, whether it was the riders or the one they were chasing, he wasn’t sure and didn’t want to know.
Painful images flashed in Trace’s mind. How many men had he chased down for money? Relentless and ruthless was the way the men he’d brought in described Trace Logan until he’d had enough. He started off to bring justice to a lawless land. Trace even convinced himself that he helped others get revenge on those who’d taken lives, money, or goods from decent people.
Yet, along the way, Trace began to see himself just as dirty and evil as those he brought in. He was about to give it up when he hunted for the judge’s killer. Now, thanks to a dying gambler’s wish to give his ranch to the bounty hunters who brought in the judge’s killer, Trace had a ranch in Sunset Creek, Wyoming. The only catch, he needed to marry and settle down. He’d already paid to have a cabin built.
A bunch of crows flew up from the grass and startled the buckskin. Trace calmed the horse and continued down the road. He kept his eyes down, looking at the hoof prints when suddenly, the buckskin snorted.
Yanking the reins, Trace raised up. Just off the road, a body swung from the thick branch of a large oak. Gulping, he quieted the horse. The sightless eyes of the large man seemed to stare at him. A paper pinned to his shirt read, Frank Taylor – Horse Thief. He’d been dead for a day or two. Trace bit back the bile that threatened to rise, calmed the snorting horse, and dismounted.
After tying the horse, he checked the saddle. No knife. Trace fumbled with the dead man’s rope, but it was too tight to get loose. He bumped the dead man’s leg, turning the swaying body, and saw a knife attached to the dead man’s belt.
Trace mounted the buckskin and rode to the body. Holding his breath, he pulled the knife out. Backing away, Trace raked the blade against the rope, broke through, and watched the body tumble to the muddy road.
“Okay, Buckskin, let’s see what we can do for this poor unfortunate.”
After tying up the horse, Trace dragged the man farther from the road. He went through his pockets and found nothing. Trace threw some brush and a few rocks over the body as it was the best he could do without a shovel.
He strapped the knife to his belt and untied the buckskin. He gave one last look at the shoddy grave and kicked the gelding into a gallop to put distance between him and the tragic scene. A chill gripped him as he pondered how that could be him if the posse from Shade caught up to him.
Five miles up the road, he came to a crossing. He’d go north. To confuse anyone that might be following, Trace road the buckskin in a tight circle then took off on the grass, staying fifteen feet from the road. After twenty minutes at an easy lope, he reined the buckskin back to the dirt lane.
At the bottom of a valley, Trace halted. Ahead a horse grazed near the road with a small person standing nearby. The dead man was one thing. He couldn’t say he’d seen Trace and the buckskin, but a witness that the posse could get information from, that was a different story.
Still, his momma had taught him better than to leave someone alone and in trouble.
Trace nudged the gelding into a lope. As he neared, he got nervous. A kid. Must be some adults nearby. The only horse, a gray with boney neck and hips, looked older than his thirty years.
Finally, Trace stopped in front of the kid. Staring at him through two of the bluest eyes he’d ever seen, a girl of about ten edged toward the old nag.
“Who are you?” She’d stepped almost under the old horse’s neck.
Trace hooked a leg over his saddle horn. “Trace. And what is a little girl doing way out here by her lonesome?”
“I’m not alone.”
“That old nag doesn’t count.”
She fidgeted and clutched the sides of her blue dress while looking up the road in the direction Trace had ridden. “Frank is coming back. He’ll be here soon.”
The name and small unsure voice of the little girl creased Trace’s heart. More than likely, she’d been waiting for the man he’d cut loose from the tree. Trace got down from the buckskin and walked toward the girl.
Fear darkened her face, and she backed away.
He stopped. “I won’t hurt you.” He patted his horse, trying to think about how to tell the girl that her Frank wasn’t coming. “This Frank. His last name wouldn’t be Taylor, would it?”
Hope leaped to her eyes. “You seen him? Did he send you?”
Bowing his head, Trace bit his lip. There wasn’t any easy way to tell her. “Honey, your Frank met with some trouble. He won’t be coming.”
Sadness beat the hope from her face. “Is he hurt?”
“Darlin’, he’s dead.”
She threw her skinny arms around the old horse’s neck, and the mare nuzzled her, nickering softly.
Trace eyed the road to make sure no newcomers or posse appeared. Walking toward her, he considered his options. He could ride away, but then again, he couldn’t just leave a little girl in the middle of this wild country. “I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you. Do you have any folks around here?” Hopefully, she lived on the other side of the hill, and he’d take her back to her momma.
She shook her head, no.
“Aunts, uncles?” Desperation marked his words. On the run, he sure didn’t need a kid tagging along.
“No, just me and Lady.” She patted the mare’s skinny neck.
“Looks like she’s an old friend.” He patted the gelding’s neck. “This is Buckskin. And my name’s Trace. What’s yours?”
“You already told me your name.” Her tear-stained cheeks, upturned nose, and defiant lips touched his heart.
“Okay, you’re right, but I don’t know what to call you.”
She scrunched her lips, looked at the old horse, and back at him. “Blue. Blue Taylor.”
He grinned at her, hoping she’d trust him. “Must be because of those bright eyes of yours. Never seen any that blue like a clear sky.”
The girl gave him a weak smile. “That’s what my momma always said.”
An eye to the sun and Trace knew he needed to put some more miles between him and Cyrus. “Look, Blue. I can’t leave you here by yourself. How about you hop up here on Buckskin, and we’ll head out and get some dinner?”
“What about Lady?”
The old mare didn’t look like she could go another mile. “Lady looks like she’s happy right here. There’s lots of good green grass and water. She’ll be fine.”
A tear trickled down the girl’s cheek. Wiping it away, she straightened. “Let’s go.” Blue walked to the edge of the road and picked up a small, worn satchel.
Trace shook his head. For one so little, she acted like leaving those you love was all too common an occurrence. He’d take her but only for a day, maybe two, when they reached the nearest town, he’d pawn her off on someone.
He mounted and held his hand out to her. “Grab hold, and I’ll swing you up behind me.”
She hesitated, turned to look at the old mare, and then with a little sob, she took hold of Trace’s hand.
Like hauling a bag of feathers, Trace swung the girl behind him. Her little arms squeezed his middle, and he patted her hand, wondering what he was going to do with her. “You hang on. We’ll stop for some food closer to sundown.” What food? He didn’t have anything. Maybe he could scare up a rabbit or prairie hen.
The miles disappeared under the big gelding’s long stride. Not ten minutes after picking the girl up, she’d fallen asleep. With one hand, Trace held the reins while he held onto the kid with the other. When the sun winked, dipping behind a stand of aspen, Trace halted the horse and backed him onto the side of the road. Once in the grass, he turned him and walked the horse to the trees.
He shook the girl’s arm. “Blue, Blue. Time to wake-up.”
“Where are we?”
“At camp.” Trace took hold of her arm and lifted her up, and then lowered her to the ground. He followed her, stretching his back and legs. He unsaddled the horse, hobbled him, and took off the bridle. Finished, he shook out the saddle blanket and set it on the ground next to the saddle. “You can sleep on the blanket. It might be cold tonight.”
Blue backed away from him, her bottom lip quivering.
Poor thing looked scared to death. He cut down some branches and threw them on the ground. Grinning, he tried to get her to trust him. “I’ll sleep on the branches. Okay?”
She nodded. Suddenly she started picking up small branches. “I can make a fire. Frank showed me how.” As if saying his name brought back her loss, she stopped and sat on the ground with her big blue eyes soft, sad, and pooling.
Keeping her busy might help. “You round up the firewood. I’ll try and get us some food.”
Blue nodded, determination marking her face as she set about gathering sticks.
Trace took his rifle, well, the gun that had been attached to the saddle. Thanks to T. Goodman, he could hunt for a meal. He really didn’t want to fire a shot, but the kid looked like she hadn’t had a good meal in some time. Sitting in the fork of a dead cottonwood, Trace wondered how the little girl came to be wandering with a man who found himself swinging from a tree.
Deep in his musings, Trace almost missed the tentative hop of a jackrabbit. Aiming the rifle, he fired. The rabbit jumped and fell. Smiling, Trace retrieved the hapless hopper and went back to the camp.
A fire greeted him. He hadn’t expected that. Blue warmed her hands over the flames but jumped when she saw him. Clearly, she didn’t trust him yet.
He threw the rabbit near the fire. “We’ll eat good tonight. You hungry?”
She shrugged, but her eyes devoured the animal.
“I’ll have it roasting in minutes. There’s a creek through those trees. Why don’t you fetch us some water? The canteen is wrapped around the saddle horn.”
Licking her lips, Blue rose and took the canteen. Her small steps barely rustled the carpet of leaves on the trail to the water.
He gutted the rabbit and set it over the fire to roast on a branch. Trace was about to look for the girl when she reappeared, lugging the canteen over her shoulder. “Is it ready?”
“Just about. When was the last time you ate?”
Head down, she mumbled. “I don’t know. Two days.”
He cut off a leg and handed it to her. “Careful, it’s hot.”
Greedily, she grabbed it, dropped it, and shook her fingers. Blowing to cool the meat, she then wrapped her dress around the leg and held it to her lips. She stopped blowing and gave Trace a quizzical look. “Thanks. What happened to Frank?”
Trace bit into the hot rabbit, chewing while he tried to think what to tell the girl. Finished swallowing, he took in a breath. “Found him dead alongside the road. He didn’t have anything on him except a paper stating he was Frank Taylor. I buried him and then rode on where I found you.” Not exactly the truth, but close enough.
“Did you say words over him?” Innocent eyes bored into him.
“Well, I might have said a few.” Words? She must mean Bible words. He didn’t know any of them except a few spoke against him when he was a boy and fought with Jeremy Wilkins. Jeremy’s father was a preacher and knew all the right words to make you feel the wrath of God on your tail if you crossed him.
“Good.” Then between bites, Blue nodded. “Maybe he was robbed. He told me he was going to town to get some money that someone owed him. You a lawman?”
Trace almost choked on the meat. “No.” How could he tell her the law might be looking for him. For sure, one mean sheriff probably was.
“You have a job? Are you a cowboy?”
Nobody warned him little girls came with so many questions. Then again, they were small women, and he’d never known one yet that could keep quiet for more than a few minutes. “I’m just traveling through. You have any more questions?”
“How—”
“Whoa, I didn’t really mean it. It’s late, and we got a lot of riding to do tomorrow. Buckskin over there needs to get his sleep, and little girls asking hundreds of questions might keep him up. You finish eating all you want, then lie back on that blanket and get some sleep.”
Blue smiled, ate a few more pieces of meat, and sat on the edge of the blanket. Her hands folded and head bowed, she prayed. “Father in heaven, thank you for watching over me. Take care of Frank. Bless Trace and lead us to where you want us to go. Amen.” Finished, she crawled onto the blanket and, in minutes, slept.
Her prayer stunned him into silence. That sweet voice of innocence had called down a peace that Trace hadn’t felt in some time.