The Last Ride

Part One

Clyde Orson was a naturally cautious man, and he'd lived out the previous decades of his life by never rushing into anything. He'd served in the War Between the States for the duration of the fighting, he'd been oversees to Morocco, France, and Africa, and he was a veteran of countless Indian wars. So now, when his big brown lifted his head and paused midstride, Clyde paid attention. The gelding's ears were flicking toward the high boulders above him, and the man could hear the horse's breath blowing hard from distended nostrils. Clyde swung the brown off trail and into the trees, moving at a left angle from the direction he'd been traveling.

He swung from the saddle and lifted his old buffalo gun from the saddle bucket, the heavy .50 Sharps comfortable in his hands. He dropped the reins, knowing his faithful mount would stay where he left him. With care Clyde worked along through the ancient trunks of the trees up toward a vantage point where he could look down on the trail he'd just been on. The sun was warm, but the wind had a chill to it, a fore gleam of the savage winter that was fast approaching. He dropped to his belly and inched along through an open space and into a cluster of rock and scrub brush, taking care to move slowly. He felt a twinge in his leg as an old wound flared up and he gasped quietly, frowning. I'm gettin' too old for this crawlin' around, he muttered to himself.

Reaching his vantage point the old man looked down and out over the trail and smiled. There was a distinct track in the dust below him, a bare footprint covering over his geldings'. Bless that old hoss, Clyde thought, he always could smell an Indian a mile away. Settling down comfortably as he could, Clyde readied himself for a long wait. In this area, any Indian was likely an Apache, and those folks could outwait death itself.

The sun rose higher in the clear blue sky though it did nothing to warm the day, and the wind picked up, rustling the drying leaves and stirring up small dust twisters. Still Clyde did not move. His old gray eyes did not grow lax, and his attention did not wander for a moment. He'd lived too long to let habits of a lifetime go, and out there somewhere he knew, an Apache was just waiting for him to do something foolish.

Shadows began to shift and lengthen before he saw it, the flicker of movement that caught the corner of his eye. A bit of buckskin, the flash of brown flesh, and the Indian was again under cover. Clyde did not panic, nor was he induced to open fire at a shadow. As of now, he had no way of knowing what the numbers of his enemy was, and he'd not been prepared for a siege. Best to stay still, and wait, he told himself reasonably. A muscle spasmed in his leg and Clyde grimaced, the hot lance of pain streaking through him. Blasted wound! That thing will be the death of me someday, Clyde mused irritably. Even as he thought that he saw an Indian come into sight, leading his brown gelding!

The horse was walking along easily enough, if a little suspiciously, and Clyde inwardly cursed bitterly. He lifted the rifle and settled the sights on the bare brown skin, then stopped. Were his old eyes failing him, or was that a child? He watched for a second, his mind working rapidly. Though Apache women and children were just as deadly as the braves, Clyde was no killer of children. He'd always fought man to man, and he aimed to keep it that way. Scowling he set his fingers against his mouth and blew a loud, sharp whistle. Oddly the Indian boy did not turn around until the gelding jerked his head and lifted two heavy front hooves of the ground. He pawed the air and let loose a loud whistling neigh before breaking free and making a fast turn and galloping quickly back toward the trees, up toward where Clyde lay hidden.

In a move that startled the old man, the brown patch of skin below him turned and chased after the horse! Cursing the persistence of the Indian Clyde slid backwards and got to his feet, having to limp heavily as his leg got reacquainted with being upright. He could hear the gelding coming, a heavy pound of hooves and standing behind a thick trunk of an ancient pine Clyde lifted the Sharps, and waited. The brown gelding broke cover and headed for him, his nose leading him straight toward his master. That horse could outdo a hound dog eight days a week, Clyde thought proudly then the Indian burst into sight and Orson stepped around the tree. The black barrel of the shotgun pulled the young buck up short, large brown eyes wide.