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  The girl was a good looker as girls go, and Clay Storm wanted her for wife. Two ruthless riders from the North also wanted her - dead.

  And so . . . Clay stepped onto the trail and said: ‘Hold it right there.’ The man on the horse clutched the girl harder. ‘Let’s talk this over like sensible men,’ he said - and dived from his horse, his gun already banging. The horse reared. Clay levered and fired. The girl screamed. A man lay dying in the Texas dust.

  HARD TEXAS TRAIL

  STORM 2

  By Matt Chisholm

  First published by Mayflower Books in 1971

  Copyright © 1971 by Peter Watts

  Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: April 2013

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading the book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover image © 2013 by Westworld Designs

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.

  Chapter One

  Clay Storm halted the dun horse and looked over the country, squinting his eyes against the blinding glare of the sun. His eyes ranged around the entire horizon, sweeping across the rest of the crew following behind with the loose horses.

  Clay had ridden ahead. His father had put him in charge. It was a lot of responsibility for a twenty-three-year-old. The old man hadn’t given him any detailed instructions, which was just like Will Storm. He’d told Clay to go home, sell up the old place down on the Nueces River and bring up a herd of longhorns into Colorado. No more than that. And it was enough for Clay.

  He was young in age, but he felt old in experience. He’d served the last years of the war in the Texas cavalry. Death and pain had been his daily ration. He had lived with danger as a man lived with his skin. Fear and the will to survive had grown with his whiskers.

  Now they were on the long trail home, headed almost directly south for their home country. Clay was wary, because this country was new to him; he was wary also because not a couple of weeks before he and the crew had ended the long drive up from Texas with three thousand longhorns. And they had their share of trouble - stampede, Indians, jayhawkers, in that order. They had lost a man dead, shot from ambush, and they had repaid the men who had tried to rob them of their herd. The experience had hardened the crew into a compact outfit. That was one comfort to Clay - he couldn’t have been sided by better men. His two brothers, Jody and George; the Mora cousins; the Quintin brothers and the veteran of the outfit, Manning Oaks.

  They were far west of Abilene here and therefore, Clay thought, a healthy distance from the country in which the jayhawkers might operate. That brought them into Indian country. He didn’t know too much about Indians. He’d seen the civilized ones in the Nations and paid them toll for the cattle going through their country. In his ‘teens, down in the brush-country, he’d experienced the tail end of a Comanche raid. No more than that. But he’d heard his father and his uncle talk. He’d heard the tales told by the old-timers. The result was that he had a healthy respect for the red man. He didn’t believe the pulp fiction of the period that made it possible for white men to mow Indians down in droves. The Comanche, for one, was a superlative horseman, could whip his weight in bobcats and could lift a man’s horses in the night without his knowing.

  Uncle Mart had said once: ‘You don’t know he’s got your horses till you find your throat cut.’

  So Clay traveled warily, keeping his eyes on the country, looking for telltale dust and keeping his fingers crossed. He didn’t want any slip-ups; he wanted to reach home with a full crew so they could gather the herd and drive to Colorado. He’d told pa he could do it and, by God, he was going to show him he could.

  The dun whickered and his black ears went forward.

  Clay was instantly on the alert. He respected the dun. The animal was half-mustang and he had all the right instincts when it came to danger.

  But he could see nothing now. Nothing beyond the endless sea of grass.

  He went forward, squinting his eyes against the glare.

  Then he saw it, cut and cut across by the heat haze - the dark moving blur. He lifted the horse into a trot, going down the ridge from which he had made his observation. The sweat trickled down his chest and back. He covered a mile, two miles. The blur became identifiable as a mass of moving objects. It covered too much ground to be Indians. Too big for a band of horses, too dark for a herd of antelope. Therefore, it must be buffalo.

  But buffalo could mean Indians.

  The boys would laugh at him if they knew he was as nervous as this. They could afford to, they didn’t have his responsibility. Some instinct seemed to be riding him, some sense beyond his comprehension whispered that there was danger. Had it been no more than the buffalo that had alerted the dun?

  Then suddenly Clay saw him.

  One minute the vast prairie seemed to contain no living creatures but him and his crew and the buffalo ahead.

  Then the Indian was there.

  They must have spotted each other in the same moment. No more than a long rifle shot apart, they halted and stared - the young Texan in his hickory shirt and cord pants, the half-naked young Indian and his leggings and breechclout.

  It seemed that neither knew what to do next. When you meet an alien creature, do you shout or shoot? Do you greet him or kill him? There was another alternative - you could run away. Apparently, they both thought that was the best idea. As if there was a signal between them, they turned their horses, one the dun and the other the paint pony. One rode south and the other north, both to tell his own people what he had seen. Once, they looked back, but they both kept on going.

  Jody was out in front, his don’t-give-a-damn, reckless middle brother, Jody who gave Clay most trouble of all, the unpredictable. He was burned dark as Indian after weeks in the saddle, his teeth flashing white against the brown of his skin.

  ‘You see anythin’ but grass, hermano?’ He demanded, expecting Clay to stop.

  But Clay rode on past him toward the others with: ‘An Indian.’

  That aroused Jody’s interest at once. He whirled his horse and came whooping after his elder brother. The others gathered around. They could see from Clay’s face that for once he had ridden forward and found something.

  ‘I seen an Indian,’ Clay told them. ‘There’s buffalo ahead and I reckon there’ll be Indians killin’ ‘em.’

  He looked at Manning Oaks. The rangy Texan was a man of some experience. Manning’s face was solemn, but his eyes were all crinkled up at the corners, like he was laughing inside. He wanted to see what Clay would do.

  The Mora boys, Pepe and Juan, looked at each other. They didn’t want any part of any Indians.

  Meredith Quintin said: ‘If there’s Indians around, we have horses and the Indians’ll want ‘em.’

  Clay said: ‘I reckon we’ll go around ‘em. We’ll angle west a mite. The buffalo’re movin’ south-east.’

  ‘Go around ‘em?’ Jody said, disgust in his voice. ‘We scared of a passel of God-damned Indians? Why there ain’t an Indian–’

  ‘Shut it,’ Clay snarled. You had to keep Jody down firm all the time or there was no knowing what could happen.

 
‘Now see here,’ said Jody.

  ‘What do you think, Mannin’?’ Clay asked.

  ‘Why look for trouble?’ Oaks said. ‘We’re sure goin’ to have our bellyful of trouble before we hit the Nueces, why look for it up here?’

  Charlie Quintin said: ‘Makes sense. I like my hair as it is.’

  ‘Keep the horses close-herded and head south-west,’ Clay said.

  Jody tried to make an argument out of it. He tried to make an argument out of everything, but they all told him to close up his head and they headed south-west. As they rode, the dim dark line that was the edge of the buffalo herd could be seen on their left and they all were watchful of it, but they saw nothing that could be an Indian.

  They came to water before dark came down and decided to camp on it. The Mora boys watered the stock, the Quintin boys, whose turn it was, prepared the meal and they quickly set up camp. They were in country that was slightly more broken than they had been traveling through all day and they were able to pitch camp in terrain that offered them some protection. There was fair grass on which the stock could graze and it was the general opinion that all the horses should have the opportunity of filling their bellies. This made sense, for they were not carrying any bait for the horses. Just the same, that instinct in Clay made him order the staking of at least four horses near the sleeping men. He didn’t intend that there should be the slightest chance of his crew being set afoot in this country. As an added precaution, he told off the men in pairs for watches through the night. They grumbled and naturally Jody had to say that his big brother was getting pretty scared. Clay told him he’d whale the living daylights out of him if he didn’t mind his manners. He himself took the first watch with the youngest Storm, George.

  Clay himself took up a position on a knoll overlooking the creek. George he placed on the far side of the remuda.

  Nothing happened during their watch.

  They woke Jody and Manning Oaks and got between their blankets.

  As he lay down, Clay thought: Maybe Jody’s right. Maybe I’m just scared.

  Chapter Two

  It seemed he heard the yell as soon as his head touched his saddle.

  He struggled up out of the thick fog of sleep, confusedly aware of sounds that ripped open the silence of the night.

  Near him, Mike Quintin yelled.

  He reached out a hand and gripped the stock of the Henry repeater his father had given him, rearing to his feet and trying to get his bearings.

  Now the sounds came into focus and he knew that the horse herd was running. Over the roll and thunder of the animals’ hoofs he heard a strident yell that he knew came from a red throat.

  Real alarm knifed through him.

  A gun went off.

  Near him, in panic, one of the staked horses lunged and broke free. Clay cannoned into him and the next moment was floundering on the ground, cursing.

  A succession of shots.

  The sound of hoofs was hurrying into the distance.

  He got to his feet and ran forward. A figure loomed in front of him.

  ‘They got the hull God-damned shebang.’ It was Manning Oaks.

  Suddenly, Clay was alarmed for his brother. If Manning was on guard, then Jody should be around here somewhere. The others were coming up, weapons in their hands, some of them in their sox.

  ‘Jody,’ he called. ‘Jody.’

  No answer.

  He called again.

  He turned to Oaks.

  ‘Was that shooting yours?’ he asked. ‘Were the Indians shooting?’

  ‘Nary a shot,’ Oaks said. ‘I emptied my fool gun. I didn’t hear a shot from Jody.’

  They searched around. After a while, Pepe Mora called: ‘Over here.’

  They hurried to him and found Jody lying on the ground moaning and holding his head. When they spoke to him, he muttered an incoherent reply. They carried him back into camp, bathed his face with water until he consented to make himself understood. He didn’t know what happened to him, but he reckoned he’d been hit by a club.

  Manning Oaks said: ‘We’re alive an’ that’s somethin’.’

  Clay went and checked the other horses. The three of them were there. He was pretty thankful he’d thought to stake some. He walked back to the others and said: ‘Get some sleep. We can’t do anythin’ till dawn.’

  ‘What do we do then?’ George asked.

  ‘Get back our horses,’ Clay said.

  Manning Oaks whistled, but he didn’t say anything.

  Clay left Juan Mora on guard and got into his blankets again. He didn’t know whether any of the others got any sleep, but he was certain he didn’t. He just lay there looking up at the stars and wondering what pa would think if he knew he’d lost most of the horses this early in the trip. The shame of it burned in him.

  The first glimpse of dawn and he ordered a fire built. There was no purpose in hiding themselves from the Indians, for they knew exactly where they were. They’d found them unerringly in the dark so it stood to reason that they could find them in daylight.

  They drank coffee dejectedly and Jody sat and nursed his head. George said that it was something to discover that something harder than Jody’s head existed in the world. Jody was so far gone in dejection that he didn’t even cuff his younger brother. But when Clay said that he and two others would go after the horses, Jody was first in saying he’d go along. However, Jody was the last man on earth Clay wanted along. Jody was trigger-happy and raring for a fight. All they wanted now to start real trouble was a dead Indian. Then they’d have the whole durned tribe down on them.

  He wanted the horses back with nobody dead. Jody argued. Jody always argued. Clay told him to shut his fool head. If Jody had felt a little sprier, it might have ended in violence. As it was, he went and lay down with his hat over his face.

  Clay said: ‘Throw your hull on a horse, Mannin’. An’ you, Juan.’ He knew they were both good men for the job ahead of him. Neither would lose his head, no matter what happened. Both men had had some experience with Indians.

  The three of them saddled horses.

  Clay’s last words from the saddle were: ‘Charlie’s in charge while I’m gone. Everybody stays close to camp. Don’t let any Indians in beggin’. But don’t pick a fight unless you have to. Hear?’

  Charlie said he heard.

  Clay led the way north, picking up the plain sign of the fleeing herd and following it.

  It led them a mile or two and then disappeared into the creek. It. didn’t appear on the far side. Manning said the Indian tactic had been damned foolish. They couldn’t have gone south because that would have taken them past the camp. So they must have gone the other way. They wouldn’t stay long in the water because they were in a hurry.

  That proved to be the case. No more than a half-mile further on, they found the spot where the horses had been driven ashore and driven west. The sign showed that they had been kept on the run.

  As he rode, Clay had doubts that he was doing the right thing. He might well be leading the other two into real trouble. So far as he could read the jumbled sign, there were no more than four Indians with the horses. But that didn’t mean there weren’t more up ahead. For all he knew, the four braves were on their way home and would lead the three young Texans to a fully populated village. You had to brace yourself to jump four fighting Indian warriors. What it would take to regain his horses from a whole tribe he didn’t dare contemplate. He wished he were one of those courageous men of the dime novels who seemed to entirely lack the fear of a mortal Texas cowhand.

  As they rode, the sun, which had shown brightly in the early hours, disappeared more and more frequently behind fleeting clouds. By mid-morning, the light breeze which had sprung up from the north, was blowing hard. They could hear it singing through the coarse buffalo grass. No longer was the horizon broken by the heat haze. By noon the sun had disappeared completely and it had become so chill that each man was forced to shrug himself into his coat. They kept the horses at t
he hammering jog trot with which they had started the chase.

  Manning Oaks, watching the sky, said: ‘It’ll rain before the day’s through.’

  Clay knew he was right, but hoped desperately that he was wrong. Rain would wash out the sign and make pursuit hopeless. If it rained, they could kiss their horses goodbye. Eight of them would be stranded on the plains with three horses between them. He’d never live it down.

  He started desperately to pray for the rain to keep off.

  Maybe he believed in prayer after that, for, by nightfall, the rain had not come. When they could no longer read sign, they halted just where they were and slept with their horses tied to the wrists. The animals could feed little that way and even so the men were forced to move during the night so that the animals could find fresh graze, but at least when they woke in the dawn, they still had mounts.

  During the night, it rained.

  Luckily, they already had their slickers on for warmth, but just the same, the downpour was so heavy that they were forced to sit crouched up with their paulins over their heads or they would have been soaked to the skin. Dawn found them chilled to the bone their pants black with wet and their enthusiasm for chasing Indians sadly dampened.

  The sign was washed out. The Indians were now a good many hours ahead of them, for they were able to drive on through the darkness.

  Manning Oaks took it out in cussing. He cussed beautiful and at great length without repeating himself once. Manning prided himself on his profanity.

  Juan Mora muttered liquidly and succinctly in Spanish.

  Clay stayed silent, consumed with bitterness and disappointment. He stood there, staring into the rain-haze in the west and asked himself: What would the old man do?

  He knew damned well what Will Storm wouldn’t do - he wouldn’t go back without his horses.

  Clay wracked his brains. How to find the animals? He could think of no way. If the other two knew the answer to the problem, they weren’t saying. He couldn’t think of nothing else to do, but to go on right ahead and hope there was some luck along the trail. All day yesterday, the tracks had gone in roughly a straight line. Maybe they would continue to do so.