Read Online Texas Drive by Bill Dugan - Free Book Online Page B

smeared with fresh blood, and the flies were already busy.
    He moved slowly now, brushing the grass away with his forearm. The grass was bent in a long, narrow channel winding off toward the creek bed another hundred yards away. An occasional smear of blood glittered on the grass. So far, there was no sign of Jack or anyone else. No sign, that is, except for the blood. It could even belong to a horse, but he didn’t think so.
    Ted straightened, cocking his ears toward the gentle slope across the creek. He might have heard something, but wasn’t sure. He knew he didn’twant to go any farther on foot. If someone was out there, he couldn’t risk being run down by a mounted man, whether white or Indian. He sprinted back to the house, Jack’s Winchester cradled in his arms.
    Dashing into the house, he grabbed a box of shells for the carbine from the ledge over the fireplace, then ran back out to his pony. He sprang into the saddle and urged the horse around the barn. He picked up the trail almost where he’d left off, and slowed the horse to a walk. Keeping one eye on the ground ahead and one on the channel through the rough grass, he followed the pattern of bloodstains with mounting concern.
    Down by the creek, he stopped and dismounted. The marshy edge of the creek was covered with prints, all fresh. Hoofprints and the depressions of moccasined feet intermingled. There was no doubt now that Jack Wilkins had had a second visit from the Comanches. The only question was, where was Jack?
    Little swirls of mud eddied in the water, silt curling just above the creek bed, clouds of light brown in the clear water. He looked upstream, then remounted. The pony didn’t want to go, and he squeezed it with his knees until it stepped into the tepid water.
    Fifteen yards later, he was sorry.
    Jack Wilkins lay on the creek bank, his hands bobbing in the sluggish current. His throat hadbeen cut, and his scalp was gone. For good measure, a lance had been driven through his belly, pinning the body to the ground. Ted turned away, his stomach churning, a bitter fluid rising from his gut and filling his mouth with the taste of metal.
    Torn between the desire to run away, and the need to do something about the horrible vision oozing the last of its blood into the sand, he kneed the pony ahead a few paces. The horse tossed its head and shied away from the body. Ted didn’t look, couldn’t look, and swallowed hard.
    He took a deep breath, then jerked his canteen from the pommel and took a long pull on the warm water. He swirled it around, trying to wash away the taste of his own bile, and spat into the creek. He shuddered once, then took a second long swallow from the canteen. It changed nothing.
    Pulling on the reins, he pushed the pony up onto the far bank. Ted followed the course of the stream, leaning far over to look for some sign that the Comanches had left the water. It was not uncommon for someone trying to elude a tracker to use a streambed to double back, but the little mud eddies seemed strong enough a lead to pursue them upstream.
    He didn’t doubt they were paying the white man, any white man, back for their recent losses at the hands of the Cotton men. In one sense, he was directly responsible for the bloody corpse lying back there. And part of him wanted revenge. Hecould hear Jacob’s voice as if the old man were riding at his side, warning him that revenge was not the way, but he wanted it anyway. Jacob wasn’t there, after all. And besides, what could Jacob know about the guilt he felt?
    The creek flowed a little faster as he started up-hill a little. It was only two more miles to the spring where the creek had its source. If he didn’t find anything by then, he’d have to make a decision. If he tried too long and too hard to do it on his own, he was helping the Comanches make their getaway. But if he was close now and went back to town, he’d be doing the same thing.
    Plunging ahead, he was only too aware, was exactly what