Under the Stars and Bars Read Online Free

be adequately-mounted and reasonable riders, he would be hard-pressed to escape from them.
    Heading towards the woodland, Dusty could feel the big horse straining under the exertion. To his rear, the Volunteers showed no sign of opening out the hundred or so yards which separated them from him. Nor could they decrease the distance; although it might have been a different story if Dusty had been heavier, or a less skilled rider. As it was, he maintained his lead. Yet he knew that the Yankees would run him down if they stuck to his trail for long enough. Dusty grew more certain of that with each sequence of the black’s galloping gait.
    There was one way out; although Dusty—a Texan—hardly cared to consider it. Yet consider it he must. Unless something happened to halt the Volunteers, a remote contingency under the circumstances, he knew that he would have to put his scheme into operation should an opportunity to do so arise. They would surely catch up with him if he stayed afork the lathered, flagging stallion for he might easily run it into the ground. So he intended, if the chance presented itself, to quit the black’s back, take cover, and allow his pursuers to continue chasing the unencumbered animal.
    A desperate risk, maybe, but well worth trying. Without his weight on its saddle, the big horse stood a chance of outdistancing the burdened mounts of the Volunteers. In the thick tangle of the woodland, they would be following their prey by sound, with only an occasional, flickering glimpse of it caught through the trees. Given just a smidgin of good Texas luck, the Yankees might go for a mile or more before they became aware of his deception.
    Unless the Volunteers caught it, the range-bred stallion would eventually return to the Texas Light Cavalry’s camp at Prescott, which it now regarded as its home. If the horse should be captured, or fail to return for some other reason, Dusty would have to count its loss, along with that of one of his saddles, as the price he had paid for retaining his freedom. For his part, he would only be left afoot until he had walked the five miles beyond the Saline River to the home of a Confederate sympathiser who kept a few horses and saddles hidden away for just such emergencies.
    So, much as he hated the whole notion, Dusty started to make his preparations for carrying it out.
    Never forgetting to maintain his balance and keeping the same steady, controlling pressure on his mount’s mouth, Dusty knotted his reins around the saddlehorn. When he released them, he wanted the reins to hang loosely against the stallion’s neck instead of trailing free. Like the majority of range-horses, the black had been trained to come to a halt and remain reasonably still when the split-ended reins dangled loose close to its fore legs.
    The woods lay close ahead. Although the sun’s lower side was almost touching the western horizon, Dusty knew that the darkness would not descend quickly enough to save him. So it had to be the scheme after all. Turning carefully on the saddle’s seat, he looked back. While the Volunteers had come no closer, they showed no sign of quitting. So he could not commence his plan of escape immediately.
    Guiding the stallion with expressive hands, thighs and knees, Dusty steered between the trees or avoided various clumps of bushes, rocks or other hazards. Ahead was a deep, wide valley with sloping sides down which a skilled man could ride at speed. Beyond it was just the thing Dusty needed in his plan.
    Such was the rapport between the stallion and its small, efficient master that it did not hesitate on arriving at the edge of the incline. Over it went, going down in a rapid slide, hind legs tucked under its belly and fore legs reaching out ahead. Thrusting his feet forward, Dusty leaned his body to the rear. Coming near to the bottom, the horse gathered itself and thrust away from the slope to light down on level ground. With hardly a break in its motion, it headed across