Read Online The Long Trail Home by Stephen A. Bly - Free Book Online Page B

do you think?”
    A smile swept across Kiowa’s face. “You know, they say bein’ an outlaw is dangerous business. But honest work can kill a man too.”
    They jogged over to the rail as the frightened horse with the dark mane, tail, and legs danced and snorted at the far end of the corral.
    â€œRemind me not to choose that stallion when we finish this job.”
    â€œI don’t know, Sammy, there’s one good thing about the bay—no one would ever steal him from you!”
    â€œWell, go catch him and tie him to the snub post. I’ll give it another try, soon as I wash a little of this alkaline dirt out of my mouth.”
    â€œThe only thing more bitter than the dirt is the water,” Kiowa scoffed. “I can’t believe that Rocklin actually wants to ranch out on these high plains. Nobody else wants to live out here.”
    â€œI think that’s the point. It will be wide open for a long time.”
    Kiowa Fox stared across the thin, brown grass of the treeless plain. “Sammy, did you ever figure that maybe God made some territory jist for himself and didn’t intend for it to be settled?”
    â€œIf you were the Almighty, with the power to do anythin’ you please, would you create a land that looked like this just for your own backyard?”
    Kiowa began to laugh. “Nope. I’d make me some tall mountains, green trees, clear lakes, big fish, abundant game, cool breezes, . . . and a dark-skinned woman with long, black hair and dancin’ eyes.”
    Fortune examined the wound on his elbow. “Sounds like you’re needin’ a trip to town.”
    â€œWe’ve been out here two weeks. That’s the longest I’ve ever been honest in my life.”
    When Kiowa smiled the sun reflected off his gold teeth. “Six more horses and we’re done.”
    â€œSeven, unless you don’t aim to mount that bay again.”
    â€œSnub him up. Meanness can buck me off, but only death can keep me from crawlin’ back up in the saddle.”
    â€œYou’re stubborn enough to be part Comanche. Not Kiowa, mind you, but at least Comanche.”
    Rocklin’s San Francisco Creek ranch consisted of a framed, empty barn without siding, three large wall tents with raised wooden floors, a four-rail corral, and six cottonwood trees.
    One of the trees was dead.
    The white tents formed a line, south of the barn. While at the ranch, Rocklin stayed in the first one. He furnished the middle one as a cookhouse, but it was too June-hot to cook indoors. The tent closest to the creek served as the bunkhouse.
    But there were no bunks.
    Just two bedrolls and various saddles, bits, and bridles.
    With campfire flames as light, a shirtless Sam Fortune examined the wounds on his chest and arms. His lower ribcage on the right side sported a bruise the exact shape of a hoofprint. Every time he coughed, sneezed, or laughed, pain retold the incident.
    Kiowa Fox peered up from the frying pan. “You’re covered with dried blood and bruises. You used to look lean and tough. Now you just look beat up, like a herd of buffalo ran right over the top of you.”
    With a wet sack Fortune tried to dab the dirt and sand out of his elbow wound. “Kiowa, did you ever hunt buffalo?”
    â€œWhen I was little, my uncle took me north. We had just crossed the Platte when we came upon a herd the size of Nebraska. It would have been easier to count the stars than to count them.”
    â€œDid you kill a few?”
    â€œNot a one. We got chased off by the Sioux and Cheyenne. But I saw them, and I know what it feels like when they shake the ground. How ’bout you, Sam?”
    â€œI never saw the big herds: four or five hundred is probably the extent. They make quite a rumble. I can only imagine tens of thousands of them.”
    Kiowa flipped the pork chunk over and set the big pan back on the coals. “It was a sight to see when they panicked and