“Half a hour and nary a sign uh Kipp.”
Tad shoved his watch back in his overall pocket and swung into the saddle. He mentally berated himself for letting Kipp out of his sight. Here on strange ground, on a dangerous mission, he had thrown away his only vantage when he allowed the sheriff to go on alone. Kipp had as much as admitted that he had been playing a crooked game. What was to keep him from adding one more misdeed to those of the past?
A shot from the brush, well aimed, and no one the wiser. These LF men were playing a desperate game for big stakes. They would not hesitate to kill a cowpuncher to gain their ends and avoid detection. Capture, for them, meant life imprisonment. Kipp admitted being on friendly terms with them. His every action showed plainly that this was not the sheriff’s first trip into the Pocket.
With these annoying thoughts to bear him company, Tad rode on, rode with a .45 in his hand and his eyes scanning every blurred shadow beneath the cottonwoods. The big hand that held the gun did not shake. There was not a trace of fear nor weakening in the keen eyes that swept the trail ahead. He faced his future without flinching, with splendid disregard of the heavy odds against him.
Years before, Goliad and the Alamo had known such men. They came from that heroic stock that followed Moses Austin to the Brazos River. No braver men ever lined sights amid spattering bullets than these Texans. So, as his sires had faced their enemies, so now did this son of Texas ride his trail.
The ears of his horse twitched forward. The animal halted and Tad was on the ground, crouched in the animal’s shadow. Ahead in the trail gaped the pit that had trapped Kipp. On the edge of the black hole lay a hat. Kipp’s battered old felt.
A moment’s cautious search proved the pit empty. Tad left his horse in the brush, removed his spurs and chaps, and, Winchester ready, slipped on afoot, avoiding the main trail as much as possible.
Voices and the creak of saddle leather. Tad crouched in the shadow to put the approaching riders against the skyline. He could hear them talking now. Bill and his companion, bound for town. They spoke in low tones, barely audible to the listener.
“Black Jack’s carryin’ this too —— far tuh suit me, Bill. I draws the line at murder, sheriffs especially. Once clear uh these bad-lands, I’m quittin’ the flats. Kipp’s plumb right, he’s holdin’ a paw full uh jokers, even if he dies a-holdin’ ’em. No more breeds fer me. They’re too danged coldblooded. Wait a minute while I tighten my cinch. This hoss swells up like a poisoned pup when yuh saddle him.”
The two halted but a few feet from where Tad crouched. One of them swung to the ground.