larger with more trees. A little ahead and off to the side ran a stream with a thick grove of birch trees, looking like a good place to grab a bite and bed down a while.
He had been up for more than twenty-four hours, eight of which had been spent in the saddle. He had killed three men, alienated the only people who meant anything to him, and given away the family homestead. That seemed like more than enough for one day. A little food and sleep was sounding almighty good.
Judging by the tracks, yet another rider coming from the south had joined the others. The area was beginning to get downright crowded. Cormac had only ridden about twenty-five miles and already there were four people in the neighborhood. What would anyone be doing riding in this weather if it wasnât necessary? The other riders had also veered off toward these trees. Well, there was nothing unusual about that. Most good campsites were frequented frequently, or should it be frequently frequented? What would his mother think about using those two like words together? Likely, it was some kind of a double-grammar somethinâ or ânother.
The stand of birch was fair in size and too thick to see into. Cormac pulled off his heavy mittens, flexed his fingers a few times to limber them up, and unbuttoned his sheepskin coat. He worked the action of his pistol to make sure it hadnât frozen and there was a cartridge in the chamber of his rifle before laying it across the saddle in front of him. He believed the other riders to be at least a day ahead of him but had no wish to find out by surprise that he had been mistaken.
Wary of trouble and riding loose in the saddle, Cormac Lynch watched Lop Earâs ears as they followed the tracks into the grove. If the horses smelled company, their ears would perk up to listen for accompanying sounds. The tracks led him to a campsite with a ring of fire-blackened stones below a forked branch propped up to hang the handle of a bucket to heat water or a coffee pot. His bet was on the coffee pot, but it may have been wishful thinking. A cup of horseshoe coffee was sounding pretty darn good.
His pa used to tell him, âThe way to make a good cup of coffee is to throw a handful of coffee into some water and boil it a good while, and then throw in a horseshoe. If the horseshoe sinks, add more coffee, and boil it longer.â
He missed his pa, he surely did. His mother and Becky, too. John Lynch had loved to make up poems with which to tease Cormacâs mother and also loved to make up stories. A poem came to mind that his pa had made up while petting one of the cats that hung around during milking, waiting to get sprayed in the face with a stream of fresh, warm milk.
Without slowing his petting, he had just come out with it:
Poor little tittin tat
Sittin on the titten toe
Hit him with the bitty bat
Dod damn it.
Cormac hadnât known what it meant, doubted his pa had, but it was fun to listen to. His pa had been a man worth remembering. He wasnât book-read, but his brain was mighty quick.
Cormac was careful to not mess up the signs until he had a chance to study them. According to the droppings, trash, cigarette butts, and the like, two people had waited here for two days. One was a heavy man of medium height with well-worn boot heels making deep tracks, and the other, a man not much on wide but his mother had done a good job for him on tall, walking with large strides. His boots did not sink deeply into the snow, and according to the yellow letters in the snowdrift, his initials were C.S. Cormac could still think of no good reason for this many people to be out in this kind of cold.
Recent travelers had spoken of rustlers becoming more prevalent as more folks moved west. There would always be people too lazy to work, living off the efforts of others. He felt sure the riders he was following were up to no good, and rustling was the only thing that fit. Well and good. It didnât affect him,
He had been up for more than twenty-four hours, eight of which had been spent in the saddle. He had killed three men, alienated the only people who meant anything to him, and given away the family homestead. That seemed like more than enough for one day. A little food and sleep was sounding almighty good.
Judging by the tracks, yet another rider coming from the south had joined the others. The area was beginning to get downright crowded. Cormac had only ridden about twenty-five miles and already there were four people in the neighborhood. What would anyone be doing riding in this weather if it wasnât necessary? The other riders had also veered off toward these trees. Well, there was nothing unusual about that. Most good campsites were frequented frequently, or should it be frequently frequented? What would his mother think about using those two like words together? Likely, it was some kind of a double-grammar somethinâ or ânother.
The stand of birch was fair in size and too thick to see into. Cormac pulled off his heavy mittens, flexed his fingers a few times to limber them up, and unbuttoned his sheepskin coat. He worked the action of his pistol to make sure it hadnât frozen and there was a cartridge in the chamber of his rifle before laying it across the saddle in front of him. He believed the other riders to be at least a day ahead of him but had no wish to find out by surprise that he had been mistaken.
Wary of trouble and riding loose in the saddle, Cormac Lynch watched Lop Earâs ears as they followed the tracks into the grove. If the horses smelled company, their ears would perk up to listen for accompanying sounds. The tracks led him to a campsite with a ring of fire-blackened stones below a forked branch propped up to hang the handle of a bucket to heat water or a coffee pot. His bet was on the coffee pot, but it may have been wishful thinking. A cup of horseshoe coffee was sounding pretty darn good.
His pa used to tell him, âThe way to make a good cup of coffee is to throw a handful of coffee into some water and boil it a good while, and then throw in a horseshoe. If the horseshoe sinks, add more coffee, and boil it longer.â
He missed his pa, he surely did. His mother and Becky, too. John Lynch had loved to make up poems with which to tease Cormacâs mother and also loved to make up stories. A poem came to mind that his pa had made up while petting one of the cats that hung around during milking, waiting to get sprayed in the face with a stream of fresh, warm milk.
Without slowing his petting, he had just come out with it:
Poor little tittin tat
Sittin on the titten toe
Hit him with the bitty bat
Dod damn it.
Cormac hadnât known what it meant, doubted his pa had, but it was fun to listen to. His pa had been a man worth remembering. He wasnât book-read, but his brain was mighty quick.
Cormac was careful to not mess up the signs until he had a chance to study them. According to the droppings, trash, cigarette butts, and the like, two people had waited here for two days. One was a heavy man of medium height with well-worn boot heels making deep tracks, and the other, a man not much on wide but his mother had done a good job for him on tall, walking with large strides. His boots did not sink deeply into the snow, and according to the yellow letters in the snowdrift, his initials were C.S. Cormac could still think of no good reason for this many people to be out in this kind of cold.
Recent travelers had spoken of rustlers becoming more prevalent as more folks moved west. There would always be people too lazy to work, living off the efforts of others. He felt sure the riders he was following were up to no good, and rustling was the only thing that fit. Well and good. It didnât affect him,
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