Read Online Lonely On the Mountain (1980) by Louis - Sackett's 19 L'amour - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Louis - Sackett's 19 L'amour
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there? "As for me, I'm going to buy a couple of carts and go west to help my brothers with a cattle drive." Orrin leaned his head back against the tree and closed his eyes. It was cool and pleasant in the shade of the old elm. Kyle Gavin lay only a few yards away, his head pillowed on his saddle. Devnet, also in the shade, was fanning herself with her hat. He liked the way the sun brought out the tinge of red in her hair.
He liked women, and that might be his trouble. A good judge of men, he had proved a poor judge of women in his first attempt, a very poor judge. Yet what was he doing here, anyway?
He should be back at home, building friendships before the next election.
He had been a sheriff, a state legislator, and they said he was a man with a future. Yet when a Sackett was in trouble, they all came to help. Old Barnabas, the father of the clan in America, had started that over two hundred years ago. It was a long, long time.
He awakened suddenly, conscious that he had actually slept. Baptiste was harnessing the horse again. Gavin was saddling his horse. Somewhat ashamed of being the last to awaken, he went to his horse, smoothed the hair on his back, and put the blanket in place. He saddled swiftly and from long habit drew his rifle from the scabbard.
He started to return it, to settle it more securely in place, but something held his hand.
What was wrong? He glanced quickly around, but nobody seemed to be watching.
Then he knew. It was his rifle. The weight was wrong.
When a man has lived with guns all his life and with one rifle for a good part of it, he knows the weight and feel of it. Quickly, his horse concealing him from the others, he checked the magazine.
It was empty. He worked the lever on his rifle.
The barrel was empty, too.
Lonely On The Mountain (1980)
Somebody had deliberately empt
ed his rifle while he slept!
Swiftly, he shucked cartridges from his belt and reloaded. He was just putting the rifle in the scabbard when Gavin appeared. "Everything all right? We're about to move out." "I'm ready. I fell asleep over there; first time I've been caught napping in a long time." He smiled pleasantly. "But I'm awake now. Let's go!" Gavin walked to his horse, and Orrin Sackett swung into the saddle.
Somebody wanted him defenseless. Who? Why?
It could hardly be Logan Sackett's enemies, whoever they were. They were over a thousand miles away. Or were they?
Baptiste started the cart moving at a trot.
The horse seemed fit enough to go all day.
Avoiding Gavin, Orrin rode wide of the cart, sometimes in advance, scouting, sometimes falling back. He rode warily, his eyes seeking out every bit of cover.
Why unload his rifle unless it was expected that he would need it at once? He thought suddenly of his pistol. He checked it. All secure, loaded, and ready. But, of course, there had been no way they could get to that.
Off to their right, only a short distance away, was the Red River with its thousands of windings through the low hills and between its green banks. Elm, box elder, occasional cottonwood, and much chokecherry or pussywillow crowded the banks and for about a quarter of a mile to a hundred yards on either side.
On the left and over a mile away, another line of trees marked another stream. He mentioned it to Baptiste.
"Wild Rice Creek," he said, "he flows into Red." He pointed with his whip in the direction they were traveling. "Not far." "And the Sheyenne?" "Far off--westward. He comes nearer." Baptiste pointed again with his whip to the north.
"He comes to marry with Red. You see. Tomorrow, you see." He rode on ahead, skirting a clump of trees, pausing briefly to let his horse drink at a small creek. He could hear the awful creaking and groaning of the wooden axle of the cart and occasionally a shout from Baptiste.
He listened, hearing the rustle of water in the creek, the scratching of a bird in the leaves, the whisper of the wind through the branches. Quiet sounds, the sounds of
He liked women, and that might be his trouble. A good judge of men, he had proved a poor judge of women in his first attempt, a very poor judge. Yet what was he doing here, anyway?
He should be back at home, building friendships before the next election.
He had been a sheriff, a state legislator, and they said he was a man with a future. Yet when a Sackett was in trouble, they all came to help. Old Barnabas, the father of the clan in America, had started that over two hundred years ago. It was a long, long time.
He awakened suddenly, conscious that he had actually slept. Baptiste was harnessing the horse again. Gavin was saddling his horse. Somewhat ashamed of being the last to awaken, he went to his horse, smoothed the hair on his back, and put the blanket in place. He saddled swiftly and from long habit drew his rifle from the scabbard.
He started to return it, to settle it more securely in place, but something held his hand.
What was wrong? He glanced quickly around, but nobody seemed to be watching.
Then he knew. It was his rifle. The weight was wrong.
When a man has lived with guns all his life and with one rifle for a good part of it, he knows the weight and feel of it. Quickly, his horse concealing him from the others, he checked the magazine.
It was empty. He worked the lever on his rifle.
The barrel was empty, too.
Lonely On The Mountain (1980)
Somebody had deliberately empt
ed his rifle while he slept!
Swiftly, he shucked cartridges from his belt and reloaded. He was just putting the rifle in the scabbard when Gavin appeared. "Everything all right? We're about to move out." "I'm ready. I fell asleep over there; first time I've been caught napping in a long time." He smiled pleasantly. "But I'm awake now. Let's go!" Gavin walked to his horse, and Orrin Sackett swung into the saddle.
Somebody wanted him defenseless. Who? Why?
It could hardly be Logan Sackett's enemies, whoever they were. They were over a thousand miles away. Or were they?
Baptiste started the cart moving at a trot.
The horse seemed fit enough to go all day.
Avoiding Gavin, Orrin rode wide of the cart, sometimes in advance, scouting, sometimes falling back. He rode warily, his eyes seeking out every bit of cover.
Why unload his rifle unless it was expected that he would need it at once? He thought suddenly of his pistol. He checked it. All secure, loaded, and ready. But, of course, there had been no way they could get to that.
Off to their right, only a short distance away, was the Red River with its thousands of windings through the low hills and between its green banks. Elm, box elder, occasional cottonwood, and much chokecherry or pussywillow crowded the banks and for about a quarter of a mile to a hundred yards on either side.
On the left and over a mile away, another line of trees marked another stream. He mentioned it to Baptiste.
"Wild Rice Creek," he said, "he flows into Red." He pointed with his whip in the direction they were traveling. "Not far." "And the Sheyenne?" "Far off--westward. He comes nearer." Baptiste pointed again with his whip to the north.
"He comes to marry with Red. You see. Tomorrow, you see." He rode on ahead, skirting a clump of trees, pausing briefly to let his horse drink at a small creek. He could hear the awful creaking and groaning of the wooden axle of the cart and occasionally a shout from Baptiste.
He listened, hearing the rustle of water in the creek, the scratching of a bird in the leaves, the whisper of the wind through the branches. Quiet sounds, the sounds of
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