the LEGEND of She-Cat

Chapter Two

Dry camp was made that night beneath the stars, his fire no bigger than the cap of his battered gray hat. Eating a can of beans and some trail biscuits, he washed it down with bitter black coffee before snuffing the flames out. Moving a few hundred yards, he rolled into his blankets and was asleep almost instantly. Like all animals adapted to life in the wild, though, the smallest sound brought him awake. Opening his eyes without moving, Duncan waited, listening, his gaze on the silhouettes of the horses. They cropped grass peacefully, without sign of danger, but he couldn't relax.

The gelding moved suddenly, his head coming up, ears pointed forward, his snort loud in night. Beyond him, the mare whinnied softly, anxious as she pranced against the picket line. Tail flicking, the steel dust waited, head up, then abruptly lunged onto his back legs in a wild rear, bugling a challenge. Duncan was moving before the sound faded, a tawny shadow lunging from the darkness toward the horses. Knowing gunfire would draw the Mescalero to him, the large bowie knife flew from his hand. It hit with a sickening, fleshy thud, the beast answering with a piercing shriek, but no attack came.

A soft thrashing came from the sand in front of him, but he moved toward the fretting horses, speaking softly, calming them. His rifle was in his hand, held like a club in case he needed to use it. When the gelding let Duncan touch him, the man's attention went to the form lumped on the ground. Striking a match, he stepped nearer then whistled low. A catamount, big, golden, and undeniably dead. Lions loved horse meat, and this brute could easily have killed both animals. The blade of his knife had gone neatly between bone and sinew, puncturing the heart. Dropping the flame into the sand as it touched his fingers, Conner scratched his jaw with a sigh.

"Not a waste at least. Been some years since I had lion meat." Patting the gelding's neck, he checked the mare's tether, gently stroking her muzzle before setting about the arduous task of skinning out the catamount pelt. By dawn, the meat was rubbed liberally with salt, smoked and the hide rolled, ready for travel.

Another can of beans, more biscuits and a pot of coffee made up his breakfast, feeling the cool of the desert morning beginning to vanish before the onslaught of heat. Tiny insects chirped in the early sunshine, dawn glinting against the diamond pearls of dew clinging to spider webs. With the sky painted a rosy hue of pink, Duncan paused, just looking. Life had moments that were just too beautiful to pass by, and a desert sunrise had its rightful place at the top of that list. When the moment was over, he was in the saddle riding away.

Life went on in this listless manner until the lion meat had run out, and he was riding somewhere just north of Mexico. The Rio Grande was less than half a days' ride. Eyes wary, Duncan kept his rifle across his thighs. Perhaps it was foolish to remain so isolated, but Conner would rather worry over Indians and keep his head down then resist the temptation to ride the Devil's trail after the Garnett brothers. For now. His temper had led him down the path toward killer once already, but Angela had been his salvation. Now, for her sake, he was waiting to take vengeance.

He rode cautiously, unable to shake the feeling of being watched. The horses gave no sign they noticed anything out of the ordinary, the sand around him empty, but still he couldn't shake the notion. Several times he thought he'd caught a glimpse of movement in the shimmering heat waves behind him but watching carefully revealed nothing. When sunset came and the country cooled off considerably, he shivered a little in his wool shirt. Hunger gnawed at his belly, so working his way to one of the few springs he knew about, Duncan stepped from leather, observing the sand and chaparral around him.

Still nothing. Patting the gelding's neck, he smiled.

"Well, I reckon we'll have to sleep light tonight."

Stripping the saddle and packs from the horses, he took his time rubbing them clean and dry, talking sweetly to the mare as she nibbled his pant leg. Picketed where they could reach the small bubbling stream and what fresh grass there was, he took long, refreshing gulps of the sweet water before filling his canteens. The clay basin was nearly empty by then, so he waited patiently to fill his coffee pot with fresh water. In the desert, one did not treat a water source lightly, for it was one of the only means of life in a country of heat and sand. Moving back so animals would still come in for a drink, he made a small fire for himself, enjoying a scrawny desert hare, pan biscuits and hot coffee.