Read Online Ride the Panther by Kerry Newcomb - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kerry Newcomb
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Lawrence was easy pickings. What was the matter with McQueen anyway?
“I don’t think so,” Pacer coolly replied. If his boyhood chum intended to follow the black flag, so be it. But the Choctaw Kid had business elsewhere. He pointed his pinto stallion toward the Missouri road. The heat from the burning buildings continued to warm the back of McQueen’s shirt as a reminder of all he had witnessed and, try as he might, could never fully leave behind.
Dreams…
Chapter Eleven
T HE THUNDERCLAP, SOUNDING LIKE a Sharps buffalo gun in the confines of the barn, startled Pacer Wolf from his restless sleep and saved him a cracked skull in the process. The Choctaw lay on his back on a bedding of hay in a stall alongside his pinto. The lightning’s lurid blue-white glare streamed through the open stable door and outlined a menacing figure standing over Pacer and about to bludgeon him with an ax handle.
Pacer twisted and one long leg lashed out and caught his attacker on the side and sent the mysterious intruder sprawling into the center aisle. Pacer Wolf scrambled to his feet. He caught up his revolver and lunged for his assailant. He kicked the ax handle aside and dragged its former owner to her feet.
Pacer stepped back in disbelief and then turned up the wick on a nearby lantern to make certain—and yes—a young woman of no more than fifteen years stood glaring at him as she fought to catch her breath. His blow had driven the air from her lungs. At last her breathing became less desperate, and still full of fight, she glanced around for the ax handle.
Don’t try it,” Pacer said, brushing the hair back from his face and taking a better look at the young woman. She was a beauty despite her homespun attire—nankeen pants, a faded red shirt and mud-spattered flat-heeled boots. A battered carpetbag lay in the aisle a few feet away. Her auburn hair spilled past her shoulders in sodden ringlets and her hazel eyes blazed with defiance.
“I didn’t mean you no harm,” the girl said, “but I needed me a horse.” She glanced around the stable at the horses in the stalls and the empty tack room. “Where’s Erman? I thought you were him. Erman would never let me have a horse. He’s too afraid of the Shapters, especially Frank.”
Pacer recognized the first name. The stable’s owner, Erman Tree Hawk, was an old Osage who had finally put down his roots in Fort Smith. Pacer had paid the stable man the price of a bottle of cheap whiskey for the use of a stall for the night. The Osage took the money and left to slake his thirst at the nearest saloon and had yet to return. As for Frank Shapter or the girl, Pacer had no inkling who they were. He didn’t want to know. The Choctaw Kid had enough problems without looking for more.
“I got to find me a horse,” the girl said. “Anything faster than these old carriage nags. Frank’s got a Kentucky mare that’ll run me down for sure.”
Pacer could feel trouble coming. He almost volunteered his help but caught himself in time. “This isn’t the only stable in Fort Smith; Maybe you should try elsewhere,” he said.
“Frank’s looking for me. I can’t chance the street.” Her gaze settled once more on the pinto.
“Look here, whatever your name is—”
“Lorelei. That’s a pretty name, ain’t it?” She smiled.
“Not pretty enough to win you my horse.”
Yet this winsome lass with her smudged cheeks and flirtatious smile seemed confident. Pacer remembered how his Grandpa Kit had warned him of the fairer sex, claiming that a determined woman could be more dangerous than a coiled rattier. Pacer was beginning to understand the wisdom of those words spoken so long ago to a boy trapped between two worlds, one red, one white. Of course, Grandpa Kit had added with a wink, “Yessir, such gals might be dangerous but they can sure be a hell of a lot of fun.”
Well, right now Pacer Wolf wasn’t looking for fun. He just wanted to be left alone. He wanted people to
“I don’t think so,” Pacer coolly replied. If his boyhood chum intended to follow the black flag, so be it. But the Choctaw Kid had business elsewhere. He pointed his pinto stallion toward the Missouri road. The heat from the burning buildings continued to warm the back of McQueen’s shirt as a reminder of all he had witnessed and, try as he might, could never fully leave behind.
Dreams…
Chapter Eleven
T HE THUNDERCLAP, SOUNDING LIKE a Sharps buffalo gun in the confines of the barn, startled Pacer Wolf from his restless sleep and saved him a cracked skull in the process. The Choctaw lay on his back on a bedding of hay in a stall alongside his pinto. The lightning’s lurid blue-white glare streamed through the open stable door and outlined a menacing figure standing over Pacer and about to bludgeon him with an ax handle.
Pacer twisted and one long leg lashed out and caught his attacker on the side and sent the mysterious intruder sprawling into the center aisle. Pacer Wolf scrambled to his feet. He caught up his revolver and lunged for his assailant. He kicked the ax handle aside and dragged its former owner to her feet.
Pacer stepped back in disbelief and then turned up the wick on a nearby lantern to make certain—and yes—a young woman of no more than fifteen years stood glaring at him as she fought to catch her breath. His blow had driven the air from her lungs. At last her breathing became less desperate, and still full of fight, she glanced around for the ax handle.
Don’t try it,” Pacer said, brushing the hair back from his face and taking a better look at the young woman. She was a beauty despite her homespun attire—nankeen pants, a faded red shirt and mud-spattered flat-heeled boots. A battered carpetbag lay in the aisle a few feet away. Her auburn hair spilled past her shoulders in sodden ringlets and her hazel eyes blazed with defiance.
“I didn’t mean you no harm,” the girl said, “but I needed me a horse.” She glanced around the stable at the horses in the stalls and the empty tack room. “Where’s Erman? I thought you were him. Erman would never let me have a horse. He’s too afraid of the Shapters, especially Frank.”
Pacer recognized the first name. The stable’s owner, Erman Tree Hawk, was an old Osage who had finally put down his roots in Fort Smith. Pacer had paid the stable man the price of a bottle of cheap whiskey for the use of a stall for the night. The Osage took the money and left to slake his thirst at the nearest saloon and had yet to return. As for Frank Shapter or the girl, Pacer had no inkling who they were. He didn’t want to know. The Choctaw Kid had enough problems without looking for more.
“I got to find me a horse,” the girl said. “Anything faster than these old carriage nags. Frank’s got a Kentucky mare that’ll run me down for sure.”
Pacer could feel trouble coming. He almost volunteered his help but caught himself in time. “This isn’t the only stable in Fort Smith; Maybe you should try elsewhere,” he said.
“Frank’s looking for me. I can’t chance the street.” Her gaze settled once more on the pinto.
“Look here, whatever your name is—”
“Lorelei. That’s a pretty name, ain’t it?” She smiled.
“Not pretty enough to win you my horse.”
Yet this winsome lass with her smudged cheeks and flirtatious smile seemed confident. Pacer remembered how his Grandpa Kit had warned him of the fairer sex, claiming that a determined woman could be more dangerous than a coiled rattier. Pacer was beginning to understand the wisdom of those words spoken so long ago to a boy trapped between two worlds, one red, one white. Of course, Grandpa Kit had added with a wink, “Yessir, such gals might be dangerous but they can sure be a hell of a lot of fun.”
Well, right now Pacer Wolf wasn’t looking for fun. He just wanted to be left alone. He wanted people to
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