Mobley's Law, A Mobley Meadows Novel Read Online Free
Author: Gerald Lane Summers
appeared on the northern horizon. “Buffalo?”
Mobley had heard of the Buffalo that had at one time dominated the Texas prairie, but had understood them mostly extinct in East Texas, destroyed by armies of white hunters, soldiers and pioneers.
The cloud seemed to expand and contract before his eyes, a huge yellow amoeba of dust and smoke. A few figures emerged. Definitely, not buffalo .
Holy Hades! Mobley scrambled to his feet, waving his hat to clear the air. His throat went dry and tightened ominously. It was a sorry lot of cutthroats, howling madmen in a blind charge accompanied by the noise and smoke of many firearms. In a single blink, they were pouring down the far knoll 200 yards away, a wave of mindless trash hungry for blood. Whatever the grievance, it looked as if this gang had cast its lot for murder, and was in no mood for negotiation.
For a man six foot six inches in height, Mobley was remarkably well coordinated, but he was no cat, capable of popping alert instantly for a run to the nearest tree. Moving rapidly with his butt longing for relief from hours on horseback was not easy, but the situation was clear and like it or not, he had to move. More to the point, it was time to RUN!
In two giant steps Mobley was upon his horse. Rather than mount in his usual disjointed way, all elbows and angles, he’d flopped spread-eagle aboard, squeezing sensitive parts of his anatomy in the process. He seized the dangling reins and jerked her around to the south. With a wild groping swipe, he snatched at his pack mule’s picket rope, missed, then thought better of the idea. No time to save supplies. He slapped Meteor with the flat of his boots, trying desperately to get her moving and out of the draw, away from this camp.
Good riddance to the place. Old Angus had been right. The Texas prairie was no place for the faint of heart, slow of foot, or those prone to pucker in times of stress. He booted Meteor harder, legs splaying outward with the effort. GIDDAP! But move she did not. She was somewhere else, safe in grazing mode, unaware of the mortal danger, content to do no more than munch and fart after a hard day’s ride.
The very air now seemed alive, full of electric charge, as if a mean storm was about to crash down on Mobley’s head, and still Meteor piddled, ignoring another hard boot. Then, an odd flutter and buzz, like that of a saw mill winding down, or a big hornet about to sting, raised the hair on the back of Mobley’s neck.
BOOM! He ducked. BOOOM! SMACK! A large caliber bullet howled past, ripping bark and splinters from the old tree, shaking more clouds of dust and silver-backed leaves upon him. A cacophony of explosions followed, echoing down the shallow draw. The pack mule screamed, bounced straight up in the air and bolted westward, heavy pack careening loosely from side to side.
Heeeeaaaaahhhh huh huh .
Mobley turned his boots outward to engage the spurs he’d almost forgotten, and then stuck Meteor hard in the ribs. She reared, twisted in the air, and commenced to buck.
Mobley risked a peek over his shoulder at the oncoming riders. Gobs of slathering sweat flew from the flanks of the charging horses, hooves pounding clouds of dust, running flat-out, galloping, careening horses, legs flailing out as they sought purchase on uncertain ground. On their backs, the screaming, hideous looking men, arms full of weaponry produced a continuous rattle of explosions, poorly aimed shots but definitely directed at Mobley Meadows.
Holy Mother! These men were not just a tad irritable. Bullets whined off rocks, thunked trees, and sizzled past his ear as Mobley fought desperately to stay on his terrified horse and put distance between himself and these assassins.
Meteor hunched and bucked around in a full circle, first running away from, then in panic turning back toward the danger, responding to Mobley’s own excitement and contradictory rein. Mobley had never been anything but gentle with Meteor and
Mobley had heard of the Buffalo that had at one time dominated the Texas prairie, but had understood them mostly extinct in East Texas, destroyed by armies of white hunters, soldiers and pioneers.
The cloud seemed to expand and contract before his eyes, a huge yellow amoeba of dust and smoke. A few figures emerged. Definitely, not buffalo .
Holy Hades! Mobley scrambled to his feet, waving his hat to clear the air. His throat went dry and tightened ominously. It was a sorry lot of cutthroats, howling madmen in a blind charge accompanied by the noise and smoke of many firearms. In a single blink, they were pouring down the far knoll 200 yards away, a wave of mindless trash hungry for blood. Whatever the grievance, it looked as if this gang had cast its lot for murder, and was in no mood for negotiation.
For a man six foot six inches in height, Mobley was remarkably well coordinated, but he was no cat, capable of popping alert instantly for a run to the nearest tree. Moving rapidly with his butt longing for relief from hours on horseback was not easy, but the situation was clear and like it or not, he had to move. More to the point, it was time to RUN!
In two giant steps Mobley was upon his horse. Rather than mount in his usual disjointed way, all elbows and angles, he’d flopped spread-eagle aboard, squeezing sensitive parts of his anatomy in the process. He seized the dangling reins and jerked her around to the south. With a wild groping swipe, he snatched at his pack mule’s picket rope, missed, then thought better of the idea. No time to save supplies. He slapped Meteor with the flat of his boots, trying desperately to get her moving and out of the draw, away from this camp.
Good riddance to the place. Old Angus had been right. The Texas prairie was no place for the faint of heart, slow of foot, or those prone to pucker in times of stress. He booted Meteor harder, legs splaying outward with the effort. GIDDAP! But move she did not. She was somewhere else, safe in grazing mode, unaware of the mortal danger, content to do no more than munch and fart after a hard day’s ride.
The very air now seemed alive, full of electric charge, as if a mean storm was about to crash down on Mobley’s head, and still Meteor piddled, ignoring another hard boot. Then, an odd flutter and buzz, like that of a saw mill winding down, or a big hornet about to sting, raised the hair on the back of Mobley’s neck.
BOOM! He ducked. BOOOM! SMACK! A large caliber bullet howled past, ripping bark and splinters from the old tree, shaking more clouds of dust and silver-backed leaves upon him. A cacophony of explosions followed, echoing down the shallow draw. The pack mule screamed, bounced straight up in the air and bolted westward, heavy pack careening loosely from side to side.
Heeeeaaaaahhhh huh huh .
Mobley turned his boots outward to engage the spurs he’d almost forgotten, and then stuck Meteor hard in the ribs. She reared, twisted in the air, and commenced to buck.
Mobley risked a peek over his shoulder at the oncoming riders. Gobs of slathering sweat flew from the flanks of the charging horses, hooves pounding clouds of dust, running flat-out, galloping, careening horses, legs flailing out as they sought purchase on uncertain ground. On their backs, the screaming, hideous looking men, arms full of weaponry produced a continuous rattle of explosions, poorly aimed shots but definitely directed at Mobley Meadows.
Holy Mother! These men were not just a tad irritable. Bullets whined off rocks, thunked trees, and sizzled past his ear as Mobley fought desperately to stay on his terrified horse and put distance between himself and these assassins.
Meteor hunched and bucked around in a full circle, first running away from, then in panic turning back toward the danger, responding to Mobley’s own excitement and contradictory rein. Mobley had never been anything but gentle with Meteor and
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