Read Online Ride the Panther by Kerry Newcomb - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kerry Newcomb
Ads: Link
steer clear of him while he worked things out for himself.
Nothing had happened as planned. He’d spent the past year dashing across Northern lines, disrupting communications, raiding stage lines, and helping himself to the deposits in the border-town banks, all for the good of the Confederacy. The Choctaw Kid’s reputation as a daredevil had grown. He had taken pride in his own exploits. Now, thanks to Will Quantrill, Pacer’s name was linked to the destruction of Lawrence and the deaths of innocent people. His pride had suffered a grievous blow.
Pacer watched the young woman wander over to the open doorway. She felt his eyes on her. She liked that. Lorelei checked her backtrail and paused a moment to enjoy how the downpour concealed the town behind its silvery veil. Fort Smith was shuttered and dark against the elements, and the streets were empty save for a half-dozen forlorn-looking mounts tethered to a pair of hitching rails in front of the Liberty Saloon. Mules and mares and geldings waited with bowed heads and their rumps to the elements as the late summer shower lashed the rutted street. The downpour had a relaxing, almost hypnotic effect until she spied a familiar figure sloshing through the mud. He materialized out of the gray gloom, leading a horse and heading for the stable. Had she left tracks or was he merely following a hunch? Instantly, the hairs on the back of her neck tingled and her heart began to pump excitedly. She turned and gave Pacer a quick appraisal. He wore the black-legged garments of a Confederate guerrilla, which meant he was no stranger to violence and could handle himself. But could he handle the likes of the big man lumbering toward them through the storm? There was only one way to find out.
“Where you bound for, mister?” she asked.
“I’m called Pacer Wolf. And it’s to the Indian Territory I’ll be heading as soon as this storm eases up.”
“Indian Territory? That ought to be far enough,” she muttered. She stepped back and studied him.
“I’ve heard tell the Jayhawkers and Yankees have been chasing a red-haired breed called the Choctaw Kid.” She beamed with certainty. “You’re him! As I live and breathe.” Her expression became thoughtful, as if she were planning something. Pacer did not bother to reply. He rubbed a hand across his stubbled cheeks, brushed his long red hair back from his features, then settled his hat and headed for the stall. The pinto neighed and pawed the straw-littered floor with an iron-shod hoof. The animal sensed the alarm in the man. Pacer could not put it into words, but this brash young woman left him unsettled. Something in her eyes made a man go weak inside.
Pacer had an instinct for danger and, storm or no storm, he had business elsewhere. He opened the stall and tossed his saddle over the pinto. The stallion took a breath and swelled its belly, a trick that never worked on Pacer, who nudged the pinto in the ribs and, when the animal exhaled, tightened the cinch. The bridle came next. The Choctaw Kid worked swiftly and smoothly.
Lorelei gathered up Pacer’s bedroll and gunbelt and stepped out into the aisle. She clutched the blankets to her chest. “Take me with you, mister.”
Pacer gave the matter a few moments of consideration, then caught control of himself. “Not hardly,” he said, coming out for his bedroll. She backed away. “See here, miss.”
“I can be real nice to have on the trail. And I won’t be in the way.”
“It appears you already are,” Pacer told her. “And who the hell is—” He glanced past the young woman at the bearded thick-set man looming in the doorway. He was built broad and solid. He’d been walking a while and steam rose from his rain-soaked frock coat and woolen trousers and gave him the appearance of a man carved from brimstone. “Frank,” Pacer said, completing his question and dreading the answer.
Frank Shapter paused to wipe the rain from his close-set eyes, then shifted his
Nothing had happened as planned. He’d spent the past year dashing across Northern lines, disrupting communications, raiding stage lines, and helping himself to the deposits in the border-town banks, all for the good of the Confederacy. The Choctaw Kid’s reputation as a daredevil had grown. He had taken pride in his own exploits. Now, thanks to Will Quantrill, Pacer’s name was linked to the destruction of Lawrence and the deaths of innocent people. His pride had suffered a grievous blow.
Pacer watched the young woman wander over to the open doorway. She felt his eyes on her. She liked that. Lorelei checked her backtrail and paused a moment to enjoy how the downpour concealed the town behind its silvery veil. Fort Smith was shuttered and dark against the elements, and the streets were empty save for a half-dozen forlorn-looking mounts tethered to a pair of hitching rails in front of the Liberty Saloon. Mules and mares and geldings waited with bowed heads and their rumps to the elements as the late summer shower lashed the rutted street. The downpour had a relaxing, almost hypnotic effect until she spied a familiar figure sloshing through the mud. He materialized out of the gray gloom, leading a horse and heading for the stable. Had she left tracks or was he merely following a hunch? Instantly, the hairs on the back of her neck tingled and her heart began to pump excitedly. She turned and gave Pacer a quick appraisal. He wore the black-legged garments of a Confederate guerrilla, which meant he was no stranger to violence and could handle himself. But could he handle the likes of the big man lumbering toward them through the storm? There was only one way to find out.
“Where you bound for, mister?” she asked.
“I’m called Pacer Wolf. And it’s to the Indian Territory I’ll be heading as soon as this storm eases up.”
“Indian Territory? That ought to be far enough,” she muttered. She stepped back and studied him.
“I’ve heard tell the Jayhawkers and Yankees have been chasing a red-haired breed called the Choctaw Kid.” She beamed with certainty. “You’re him! As I live and breathe.” Her expression became thoughtful, as if she were planning something. Pacer did not bother to reply. He rubbed a hand across his stubbled cheeks, brushed his long red hair back from his features, then settled his hat and headed for the stall. The pinto neighed and pawed the straw-littered floor with an iron-shod hoof. The animal sensed the alarm in the man. Pacer could not put it into words, but this brash young woman left him unsettled. Something in her eyes made a man go weak inside.
Pacer had an instinct for danger and, storm or no storm, he had business elsewhere. He opened the stall and tossed his saddle over the pinto. The stallion took a breath and swelled its belly, a trick that never worked on Pacer, who nudged the pinto in the ribs and, when the animal exhaled, tightened the cinch. The bridle came next. The Choctaw Kid worked swiftly and smoothly.
Lorelei gathered up Pacer’s bedroll and gunbelt and stepped out into the aisle. She clutched the blankets to her chest. “Take me with you, mister.”
Pacer gave the matter a few moments of consideration, then caught control of himself. “Not hardly,” he said, coming out for his bedroll. She backed away. “See here, miss.”
“I can be real nice to have on the trail. And I won’t be in the way.”
“It appears you already are,” Pacer told her. “And who the hell is—” He glanced past the young woman at the bearded thick-set man looming in the doorway. He was built broad and solid. He’d been walking a while and steam rose from his rain-soaked frock coat and woolen trousers and gave him the appearance of a man carved from brimstone. “Frank,” Pacer said, completing his question and dreading the answer.
Frank Shapter paused to wipe the rain from his close-set eyes, then shifted his
Similar Books
