Bullet Creek

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Authors: Ralph Compton
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regal U formed by its neck. Karla’s slacks were drawn taut across muscular thighs and a round bottom, and pulled snugly over the tops of smooth brown boots with stars dyed into the leather where the toes tapered toward points. The girl filled her blouses right nicely these days, and she had a subtle, coquettish air that drew looks from even the surly German cook. She enjoyed being the only female about the place, aside from her father ’s rotund Mexican housekeeper, Pilar.
    The corners of Karla’s mouth drew back, dimpling her cheeks. She regarded Navarro with that wry, candid look that always made him squirm a little.
    He needed to talk to her about what she’d told Pilar, but where would he find that brand of eloquence? Maybe he’d have Pilar talk to her. She had to shed those silly ideas. First setting her hat for a vaquero who could barely speak English and now for him, a man old enough to be her father.
    â€œYour last chance,” she said, broadening the smile a little, narrowing her eyes.
    â€œBe careful.”
    Her lips shone now as the lips drew back even farther, and she patted the short-barreled pistol on her hip. “I’m packin’.” She ground her heels against the Arab’s ribs, giving the horse what it had been waiting for, and bounded off through the brush, heading west between the canyon and the wash.
    A quarter hour later, she put the Arab through a cut between two steep, boulder-strewn banks, about to trace a horseshoe route back toward the ranch headquarters. Down the grade ahead of her, from behind the right bank, two men in serapes and high-crowned sombreros stepped into her path. Both wore pistols on their hips. They held rifles across their chests with a menacing air.
    The one on the right—stocky and broad-shouldered, with a malignant grin on his round, mustachioed face—was Real de Cava. She’d seen him only once, when she’d ridden over to Rancho de Cava with Navarro and several other Bar-V riders, with a wagon load of feed. He wore two engraved pistols butt-forward, gunslick-style.
    Karla halted the horse ten yards before the two men. They broadened their smiles, but there was no benevolence on either face. Her heart beating rapidly and the short hairs prickling beneath her collar, Karla slid her right hand toward her .38. Another hand closed over hers, stopping it.
    As Karla whipped her head around, she caught a glimpse of another vaquero a split second before the man shucked her pistol from its holster, tossed it into the brush, then reached up and grabbed her by both arms. He whipped her down from her saddle so quickly that her stomach bounded into her throat, making her head spin.
    She found herself standing in the middle of the trail, the indignant Arabian pitching around to her right, facing the vaquero who’d unseated her. He stood two heads taller than she, grinning down at her lewdly.
    Her face heated with outrage. “What the hell do you think . . . ?”
    â€œWell, well, what do we have here?” someone said behind her.
    She whipped around. Still giddy from her unseating, she nearly lost her balance. Real de Cava moved toward her. “Senorita Vannorsdell, you have joined us at a most opportune time!”
    Laughter rose, and she shunted her gaze to see at least twenty more sharp-eyed, unshaven Mexicans standing off in the shadows between the boulders and greasewood shrubs, rifles clutched in their fists.
    Â 
    Tom Navarro and Paul Vannorsdell were drinking coffee in wicker chairs on the big house’s front porch, a map spread out on the low table before them. They were discussing the best places to dig more stock wells, a job they’d begin after roundup later in the autumn when the summer’s severe heat abated.
    Navarro had set his cup down and was about to draw an X in the crease between Navajo Basin and Rattlesnake Bench, when the sentry atop the house yelled suddenly, “Rider comin’

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