Читать книгу TY HOLT-TEXAS RANGER - Aubrey Smith - Страница 2

The Sabinal Canyon—July 21, 1881

There was no mistaking the snap of the bullet being chambered. It was quick and sure. Without hesitation, Ty slid a well-oiled Colt from worn leather. His grip tightened around the pistol. His breath hung somewhere in the back of his throat.

Closing his eyes, he could hear the pounding of his own blood against the walls of his heart. Seconds seemed like hours. Suddenly, he heard the sound of a horse splashing into water upstream. Ty pitched his hat on the ground behind him. Chancing a quick look around a tree, he caught a glimpse of a rider crossing to the far side of the river. Ty estimated he was about three miles north of where the west fork ran into the main Sabinal. The west riverbank of the Sabinal was a gravel bar about fifty yards wide that faded quickly into low brush. Ty shaded his eyes from the noonday sun. Dog, the old yellow Lab that went everywhere with him, pivoted, following some sound or smell that Ty was unable to detect. Watching Dog, Ty knew the rider had stopped in a cedar brake at the base of a low hill about two hundred yards downriver.

“He’s sure as shootin’ avoiding us, Dog.”

Suddenly, the rider spurred a surefooted black stallion from the brush. He quickly disappeared over the hill. All Ty could make out was that the man, dressed all in black, was big, wore a black top hat, and carried a rifle.

“Big man, big horse,” Ty half whispered.

Ty himself stood over six feet. His shoulders were broad. His muscular frame had been chiseled from hard work. Slowly, he holstered his pistol.

The white-hot sun danced heat waves off the gravel bar. Ty took a faded orange bandana from his hip pocket. Still keeping a careful watch across the river, he squatted at the river’s edge. After Ty dipped the scarf in the emerald water, he tied it around his neck. The cool water trickling across his chest and down his back felt good. Ty filled his canteen. An icy warning nudged him as he hefted himself into the saddle. Ty thought about going after the rider, but quickly decided he had more pressing duties to perform.

I’ve still got three more miles of hard riding to see a dead man, he thought.

This was the first murder in the canyon in years.

What kind of man would dress like an undertaker? Ty wondered as he spurred his mount north. About fifty yards upstream, he could see where the other horse had trailed water climbing from the river. Maybe he was the undertaker from Leakey or Medina, Ty thought, looking over his shoulder. Probably already been to Shine’s house, he decided, and rode on, dreading his arrival at the Barrow’s house.

He hated the thought of questioning the widow. In this case, he’d be needing information from Jim “Shine” Barrow’s widow. Ty shook his head, thinking of Shine. No one called him Jim, or Mr. Barrow, or even Shine Barrow, just Shine.

Shine was probably the best moonshine whiskey distiller in the whole canyon, maybe even in the whole of Uvalde and Bandera Counties. Ty had even heard of folks riding from as far away as Mason to buy Shine’s amber brew. Ty recalled that he’d bought a jug from Shine last Christmas to give to Captain Richarz. It was hard for him to imagine that Shine was dead, shot through the heart while playing the fiddle on his front porch.

Shine’s wife, Bess, and their three children were already in bed when they heard the shot. At least, that’s what sixteen-year-old Jeb Barrow had told Ty when he came galloping into Utopia like the devil himself was riding sidesaddle behind him. After Ty made sure the boy had a fresh horse, he’d sent him on to Medina to fetch his Bandera County counterpart, Texas Ranger Dade Peterson, since the shooting had actually happened in Bandera County.

Following the river upstream, the blaze horse maintained a rocking chair canter along a rutted wagon road. With the combination of heat and steady swaying, Ty almost drifted to sleep before the thought of the mysterious rider jolted him back to reality. He patted the horse’s lathered neck. “Now, that was a mighty interesting hombre,” he said aloud, looking over his shoulder.

Ty figured he would be at the Barrow’s cabin several hours before Dade Peterson arrived, since Peterson had to be notified. Dade would then have to ride the thirty miles from Medina to get to the murder scene. Ty thought that to describe Dade was to simply say, “He’s tall and skinny.” His sloped shoulders and painfully thin appearance gave people the impression that a stiff wind might blow him off the lanky gray mule he preferred to ride instead of a horse. Those who thought Dade incapable were wrong. Ty had seen Dade in action with both his guns and his bony fists. Dade Peterson was as tough as nails.

Ty gave the big sorrel he called Blaze his head and settled back. Blaze stood sixteen hands, a gelding with a white face and one white stocking. He’d raised the four-year-old from a two-day-old colt after his mother died giving him life. Orphans had always held a special place in Ty’s heart. He, too, was orphaned.

His mother had been taken to heaven the day he was born. Eight years later, Ty’s father had been gunned down on a dusty street across from the Alamo. He was shot in the back by the Mathiney Brothers. Twenty years later, he still felt an intense hatred for the cowards who’d killed his pa.

Ty reined Blaze to a stop. Sliding from the saddle, he led the horse to the edge of the river and let him finish the drink that had been interrupted by the man in black. Dog hesitated and then plunged into the water. When the horse finished drinking, Ty hoisted himself back into the saddle.“Come on, Dog,” he called spurring the sorrel upriver. “We’ve got work to do.” Dog splashed out of the river, shaking water from his body. Quickly, the dog fell in behind the horse.