Matagorda (1967) Read Online Free

was down, the breeze cool off the Gulf, which lay some distance off on his left, beyond Powderhorn Lake, close by. He had a good memory for maps and charts, as a result of both his early training at sea and his years in the army. To go south he must first go inland, find the Green Lake road, and let it take him past the head of San Antonio Bay. Beyond that there stretched a wide piece of country, but between here and there he knew of no place to hide.
    The twin tracks of the trail were plain enough, even at night, so he pushed on. The paint mustangs seemed to be glad to be moving and he held them to a good trot, which seemed to be the pace they liked. From time to time he drew up to listen for sounds of pursuit.
    He was under no delusions about Jackson Huddy. Whatever else he might be, the man had a code of ethics of his own, and only that had prevented a bloody gun battle in the cemetery. He was sure that under other circumstances Huddy would never hesitate to kill him ... if he could.
    He had studied the charts in Wilkes's wheelhouse and had a fair understanding of the country, so after a while he took a chance and left the trail, cutting across toward Green Lake. By day they would find his tracks, of course, but by then he hoped to be far away.
    Several times he drew up to give the mustangs a brief rest, but they seemed tireless and impatient to keep going. Give them their heads, he thought, and likely they'll take me right where I want to go.
    It was well past midnight when he saw the shine of water on his right. That would be Green Lake. The mustangs were tired now, trotting only when they started down a slight grade . . . which was rare enough. But they had held the pace well.
    The last miles before daylight were weary ones, but he kept the team moving until they reached the breaks of the Guadalupe.
    The sky was gray with morning when he turned off into the trees and found a hollow screened from the trail. Here he unhitched the team and led them to water, and after that he picketed them on a patch of good grass not far from the buckboard.
    Then, a gun at hand, he drew a blanket over him and went to sleep.
    It was high noon when the sun woke him, shining through the leaves of a cotton wood tree. For a minute or two he lay perfectly still, listening. Then he sat up.
    The horses were not twenty yards off, heads up, ears pricked.
    Duvarney came up off the ground like a cat, thrust his six-shooter into his belt, and reached for his gun belt and his other pistol. As he belted it on, he listened.
    The horses were looking back the way he had come.
    He got the team and brought them back. Not wanting the jingle of trace chains to warn anyone of his presence, he tied them to the buckboard. Taking his rifle, he worked his way through the trees and brush to a place where he could watch the tracks he must have left.
    He recognized the girl before he could make out any of her features. It was Mady Coppinger.
    She was riding in a buckboard driven by a stalwart Negro. Two riders followed close behind. As they drew nearer he could see that the Negro's features looked more like those of an Indian. He was a lean, intelligent-looking man with watchful eyes.
    He drew up as he neared the place where Duvarney had turned off. "I'm thinkin', ma'am, that he wouldn't have gone no further than this. That team will be plumb wore out by now. You want I should find him?"
    "No. ..." She hesitated, then turned to one of the riders following. "Harry, do you think Huddy will follow him?"
    "Huddy? No. He won't foller, but Shabbit will. Shabbit and those boys Duvarney whupped down to the dock. They'll be after his scalp, an' you can bet on it. Huddy won't do anything until Duvarney declares himself."
    "We should find him and warn him."
    Tap Duvarney made no move to leave the shelter of the brush. He did not know these men, and although they seemed to be riders from the Coppinger outfit, he did not want to chance it. His attention was on the girl. Mady was