SNEAK THIEVES
Billy Swan was riding Nighthawk when he heard the faint sound of hooves on rock. Since the herd was at rest, he looked around to find the source of the sound and saw a long dark line ragged with heads and horns moving away from the main herd.
“Cattle thieves!” he shouted.
Billy’s shout not only awakened his partners—it alerted the thieves and instantly one of them fired a shot. Billy fired back. By now, a barrage began coming from the camp itself as James and the others rolled out of their blankets and began shooting. Revelation was standing in the wagon, firing a rifle.
Billy put his pistol away and raised his rifle. He aimed toward the dust and the swirling melee of cattle, waiting for one of the robbers to present a target. One horse appeared, but its saddle was empty.
Then another horse appeared, this time with a rider who was shooting wildly. . . .
THE BOZEMAN TRAIL
Chapter One
Atacosa Creek, Bexar County, Texas
Thursday, June 20, 1861:
James Cason was bent low over his mount’s neck. The horse’s mane and tail were streaming out behind, its nostrils flaring wide as it worked the powerful muscles in its shoulders and haunches. Bob Ferguson was riding just behind James, urging his animal to keep pace, and Billy Swan was riding beside him. Behind James, Bob, and Billy, rode three more cowboys from Long Shadow Ranch.
The six men hit the shallow Atacosa Creek in full stride, and sand and silver bubbles flew up in a sheet of spray, sustained by the churning action of the horses’ hooves until huge drops began falling back like rain. James led the men toward an island in the middle of the stream.
“We’ll hold here!” James shouted.
The six riders brought their steeds to a halt. In one case the halting action was so abrupt that the horse almost slipped down onto its haunches in response to the desperate demand of its rider.
The six men had been in pursuit of a group of Mexican banditos who had murdered two of Long Shadow’s cowboys and stolen a hundred head of cattle. Long Shadow was a ranch of over one hundred thousand acres, located just south of San Antonio de Bexar. The ranch was owned by Colonel Garrison Cason, James Cason’s father.
Unbeknownst to the boys, the small band of raiders they were pursuing was but a part of a group of nearly one hundred Mexican outlaws who crossed the border into America to conduct raids on ranches all over South Texas. This outlaw army, led by a former guerrilla who called himself “General” Ramos Garza, planned to steal a large herd, then retreat across the border back into Mexico where they would be safe from any further pursuit.
Thinking only they were pursuing a few murderous rustlers, the boys had ridden right into Garza’s army. When that happened, the pursuers became the pursued, and the small posse was forced into a desperate dash back to a small island in the middle of the stream.
“How many are there?” James asked. “Did anyone get a count?”
“Too many to fight off!” Billy answered.
Of the six, Billy Swan was the only one who was not from Long Shadow. Billy lived with his uncle on Trailback, a neighboring ranch. But a rustler who stole from one rancher stole from them all, so cooperation among the ranchers against rustlers was routine.
Billy would have ridden with them at any rate, first because he was a friend, and secondly because it was an adventure and Billy never turned his back on any adventure. As it was developing, however, this was a little more adventure than even he had planned on.
“We’d better get ready,” James said. “We’ll be making our stand here.”
James Cason was twenty-two years old. He was a rangy, raw-boned man with a handlebar mustache and eyes and demeanor that were older than his years.
“James, we can’t stay here! We got to skedad dle!” Carl, one of the cowboys, said.
“Skedaddle to where?” James asked. “We were running as hard as we could, just to get here.”
“Maybe if we surrender,” Carl suggested.
“Surrender and do what? Get our skin peeled?” Bob Ferguson asked. “That bunch out there is part Mexican, part Comanche, and part rattlesnake. They eat live scorpions for fun. You want to surrender to them?”
Bob was a year younger and, at five-foot-eight, six inches shorter than James. He was an exceptionally skilled rider who often earned money by riding, and winning, impromptu races. Bob’s father, Dusty, had been Garrison Cason’s ranch foreman for nearly twenty years. As a result, Bob, too, grew up on Long Shadow, and he and James had been friends for as long as either could remember.
“No,” Carl said. “I don’t think I would want that.”
“Me, neither,” Bob said.
James pointed to the neck of the island, which faced the eastern bank of the creek, the direction from which they had just come.
“I think our best bet is to try and squirm down through the tall grass. We’ll take positions as near to the point as we can get, and do as much damage as we can when they start across the water.”
“You think we can stop them?” one of the other cowboys asked.
“We’ll know the answer to that in about two minutes,” James said. “Now hurry, get into position. And try and stay out of sight. Carl, you take that tree, Joe, that stump, Syl, you go over there behind that rock. Billy, this fallen tree is large enough for both of us, you stay here with me.”
As the cowboys rushed to take up their positions, James shouted more instructions. “Don’t be spooked into shooting when you hear them. I want you to hold your fire until I give the word. Hold it until the last possible moment. Then make your shots count!”
“James, you didn’t say where you wanted me,” Bob said.
“I want you to go for help.”
“What?”
“You are the best rider here. I want you to get back to the ranch. Tell my father where we are. Tell him to bring help as fast as he can. We’ll hold them off for as long as possible. If he gets here soon enough, some of us may still be alive.”
“No, James, don’t make me do this!” Bob protested. “I don’t aim to show my tail while the rest of you are stayin’ here to face them.”
“Oh for God’s sake, Bob, do it!” Billy said. “Do you think any of us would actually think you are running?”
“Don’t you understand, Bob? If you don’t go for help, none of us are going to get out of this alive!” James said.
Bob looked at the others.
“Do it, Bob,” Carl Adams said. He was the youngest of the group. “You are our only chance.”
“Yes, do it! Go!” Joe and Syl shouted.
“All right,” Bob said. “Billy, if you don’t mind, I’d like to take Diablo,” Bob said. “He’s the fastest horse.”
“He’s yours,” Billy replied. “Just get through!”
Billy brought Diablo up, and quickly, Bob put his foot into the stirrup, then swung up into the saddle.
“Good luck!” Billy shouted, slapping Diablo on the rump. The others shouted as well, as Bob hit the water on the west side of the Atacosa, away from where the main body of their pursuers were. James watched Bob gallop north along the west bank of the creek until Diablo crested an embankment, then he turned back to await the banditos.
“I hear them!” Joe said. His announcement wasn’t necessary, however, for by then everyone could hear the drumming of the hoofbeats as well as the cries of the banditos themselves, yip ping and barking and screaming at the top of their lungs.
The banditos crested the bluff just before the creek; then, without a pause, they rushed down the hill toward the water, their horses sounding like thunder.