once the marshal thought about that, he might see it, too.
As he rode through the night with the wind in his face, The Kid thought about what he would do next. One thing was certain: no matter where he went, he would be in great danger as long as those wanted posters with his name and description and the ten thousand dollar price on his head were circulating.
Claudius Turnbuckle’s wire had said he was going to Santa Fe to straighten everything out. That was where the true problem lay, and that was where the solution would be found as well. As he thought about it, his path seemed clear.
He would pick up that big black horse he had left hidden outside the settlement, and head for New Mexico Territory, to whatever fate awaited him in Santa Fe.
Chapter 15
Several days later, The Kid was in northern Arizona, near the Grand Canyon of the Colorado River. He had heard of the magnificent canyon but had never been there. Although he was tempted to detour to the north and have a look at it, having circled south of the imposing natural landmark, he didn’t want to take the time to do so.
Since leaving Las Vegas, nobody had tried to kill him . . . but The Kid knew better than to believe his luck would last.
He was riding the black through hills covered with a thick pine forest and leading the buckskin. Flagstaff was somewhere to the south of him, but he intended to avoid the town, as he had avoided other settlements on his journey. He didn’t want to run the risk of being recognized by another small-town lawman who might try to lock him up.
His plan was to steer clear of civilization as much as possible until he reached Santa Fe. By the time he got there, Claudius Turnbuckle ought to have reached the territorial capital, too. The Kid would get in touch with him somehow and find out if the lawyer had been successful in quashing the charges against him.
He didn’t relish the idea of spending the rest of his life as a fugitive. But he liked the thought of being locked up even less.
Once the sun set, night fell quickly amidst the towering trees. As dusk settled down, The Kid found a clearing at the base of a rocky bluff that would make a suitable campsite.
A spring trickled from the stone wall and formed a small pool of clear, cold water. There was plenty of grass for the horses, and The Kid thought the trees were thick enough that he could risk a small fire to cook some of the supplies that Carly had stuffed in his saddlebags before she brought the buckskin to him.
Eventually he would have to pick up more provisions from a small hamlet or isolated trading post, but he had enough to last a couple more days.
The nights got cold at that elevation, so after his meager supper, The Kid was glad he had his coat as he hunkered next to the tiny fire he built. He held out his hands toward the flames to catch what little warmth they gave off.
He had ridden out of Las Vegas without his hat. When he stopped for supplies, he would see if he could find another one similar to it. A man got used to wearing a hat and felt a little naked without one.
The same thing was true of a gun. At least it was for men like The Kid.
He had guns: his own Colt, the pearl-handled revolver he had taken from Pronto Pike, which was tucked away in one of his saddlebags, the Winchester, and the heavy Sharps carbine he normally carried, along with a good supply of ammunition for all of them.
Some might say he was armed for bear, not that he expected to encounter one. For The Kid, packing that much iron was just the usual state of things.
The buckskin pricked up his ears, and a second later, so did the black.
The Kid noted the horses’ reactions and frowned. He was still nursing the last of the coffee in his tin cup. He set it aside and came to his feet. Moving over to the buckskin, he stroked the horse’s shoulder and murmured to him. “You hear something, fella?” The Kid asked in a voice barely above a whisper. “Or maybe smell something?”
The
As he rode through the night with the wind in his face, The Kid thought about what he would do next. One thing was certain: no matter where he went, he would be in great danger as long as those wanted posters with his name and description and the ten thousand dollar price on his head were circulating.
Claudius Turnbuckle’s wire had said he was going to Santa Fe to straighten everything out. That was where the true problem lay, and that was where the solution would be found as well. As he thought about it, his path seemed clear.
He would pick up that big black horse he had left hidden outside the settlement, and head for New Mexico Territory, to whatever fate awaited him in Santa Fe.
Chapter 15
Several days later, The Kid was in northern Arizona, near the Grand Canyon of the Colorado River. He had heard of the magnificent canyon but had never been there. Although he was tempted to detour to the north and have a look at it, having circled south of the imposing natural landmark, he didn’t want to take the time to do so.
Since leaving Las Vegas, nobody had tried to kill him . . . but The Kid knew better than to believe his luck would last.
He was riding the black through hills covered with a thick pine forest and leading the buckskin. Flagstaff was somewhere to the south of him, but he intended to avoid the town, as he had avoided other settlements on his journey. He didn’t want to run the risk of being recognized by another small-town lawman who might try to lock him up.
His plan was to steer clear of civilization as much as possible until he reached Santa Fe. By the time he got there, Claudius Turnbuckle ought to have reached the territorial capital, too. The Kid would get in touch with him somehow and find out if the lawyer had been successful in quashing the charges against him.
He didn’t relish the idea of spending the rest of his life as a fugitive. But he liked the thought of being locked up even less.
Once the sun set, night fell quickly amidst the towering trees. As dusk settled down, The Kid found a clearing at the base of a rocky bluff that would make a suitable campsite.
A spring trickled from the stone wall and formed a small pool of clear, cold water. There was plenty of grass for the horses, and The Kid thought the trees were thick enough that he could risk a small fire to cook some of the supplies that Carly had stuffed in his saddlebags before she brought the buckskin to him.
Eventually he would have to pick up more provisions from a small hamlet or isolated trading post, but he had enough to last a couple more days.
The nights got cold at that elevation, so after his meager supper, The Kid was glad he had his coat as he hunkered next to the tiny fire he built. He held out his hands toward the flames to catch what little warmth they gave off.
He had ridden out of Las Vegas without his hat. When he stopped for supplies, he would see if he could find another one similar to it. A man got used to wearing a hat and felt a little naked without one.
The same thing was true of a gun. At least it was for men like The Kid.
He had guns: his own Colt, the pearl-handled revolver he had taken from Pronto Pike, which was tucked away in one of his saddlebags, the Winchester, and the heavy Sharps carbine he normally carried, along with a good supply of ammunition for all of them.
Some might say he was armed for bear, not that he expected to encounter one. For The Kid, packing that much iron was just the usual state of things.
The buckskin pricked up his ears, and a second later, so did the black.
The Kid noted the horses’ reactions and frowned. He was still nursing the last of the coffee in his tin cup. He set it aside and came to his feet. Moving over to the buckskin, he stroked the horse’s shoulder and murmured to him. “You hear something, fella?” The Kid asked in a voice barely above a whisper. “Or maybe smell something?”
The
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