Journey into Violence Read Online Free Page A

curiosity roused.
    â€œA fair number, maybe five hundred head, drifted south. That’s what I know so far. I suspect we’ll find other bunches to the west and north.” Bowes dropped his eyes to the cigarette he was building. “I saw hoss tracks, Frank.”
    â€œRustlers?”
    â€œCould be.”
    Frank nodded. “Your mount is used up. Saddle another horse and we’ll go take a look-see.” He turned to Trace. “Keep bringing in the yearlings. I’ll ride south with Les. Lowery, you’ll come with me.”
    â€œI got a bad feeling about this scattered herd business. It’s making me uneasy,” Trace said, the branding iron with its distinctive KK head smoking in his gloved hand.
    Frank nodded. “Me, too, Trace. Me, too.”
    * * *
    Normally, a grazing herd will spread out in groups of three or four over several acres, but they will keep each other in sight. That wasn’t the case with the Kerrigan herd.
    â€œThey’ve been hazed, deliberately scattered.” Frank lowered his field glasses. “They’re strung out for miles in every direction.”
    Nobody had asked his opinion, but Hank Lowery said, “That’s why the calves have been so slow coming in. The drovers can’t find them.”
    â€œThat would explain it all right,” Les Bowes said.
    Irritated, Frank said, “Then maybe one of you pundits can tell me why.”
    â€œWhat’s a pundit?” Bowes asked, his browned, lined face puzzled.
    â€œIt means expert,” Lowery said.
    â€œOr know-it-all,” Frank said. “Let’s ride and see if we can find the rest of the herd.”
    After two hours of searching through sagebrush and piñon under a burning sun, they found several places where cattle had forded the Pecos. Frank waved the others forward across shallow white water and again picked up cow tracks that headed south and due west.
    An hour later, they stumbled on a sight they hadn’t reckoned on. The bodies of three dead Mexicans were already buzzing with fat black flies.
    All were young men who’d crossed the border in search of work. At least that’s what Frank deduced since all three had carried packs on their backs and clothing and scraps of food were scattered around the corpses. A small, framed image of the Madonna of Guadalupe lay near the corpse of the youngest of the three, a boy in his late teens.
    Frank swung out of the saddle and examined the dead men one by one, then he rose to his feet. “They were shot at close range. The oldest has a powder burn around the bullet wound in his chest.”
    â€œApaches?” Lowery said.
    Les Bowes shook his head. “White men. Boot tracks all over the place.”
    Lowery walked off a ways.
    â€œThe Mexicans saw faces that they could later identify. That’s why they were murdered,” Frank said. “A bullet can shut a man up real quick.”
    Lowery returned. “Four riders headed”—he chopped down with a bladed hand—“that way. Due north.”
    â€œHow long ago?” Frank said.
    The gambler shook his head. “I’m not that good a tracker.”
    â€œWe’re going after them,” Frank said. “See where the tracks lead us.”
    â€œI’m not wearing a gun, Cobb,” Lowery said. “If there’s killing to be done count me out. I’m all through with that.”
    Frank turned hard eyes on the man. “Lowery, I think I disliked you less before you got religion.”
    Lowery smiled. “Very good, Frank. Very funny. Maybe I’ll write that in my memoirs.”
    Bowes spat into the dust at his feet. “Yeah, and make sure you write this, sonny. The pen is mightier than the sword except in a swordfight. The rannies we’re going after will shoot you dead as hell in a parson’s parlor whether you’re heeled or not.”
    â€œIt’s a chance I’m willing to take, Bowes,”