El Lazo - The Clint Ryan Series by L. J. Martin

  * * *

  Cha sat high on a cliff overlooking the narrow trail below and shook his head in satisfaction. He had sent the bulk of his men ahead to catch up with the twenty braves who had driven the horses out. He and nine others with firesticks waited, and it looked as if their patience would be rewarded.

  One vaquero rode fifty yards ahead of the others. Cha signed to his men not to fire and warn those still out of range, then was relieved when the vaquero waited for the others to catch up.

  The men moved slowly into range. Training his sights on a fat vaquero, he squeezed the trigger. The musket bucked, and the man below flew out of the saddle. Almost as one, the other Yokuts fired, and the ravine was a jumble of screaming horses and men.

  Vaqueros leapt from their saddles and clambered into the cover of rocks and buckbrush. Three were down by the time the first of the return fire came. Cha signed again, his men reloaded, and the next volley slammed into the horses.

  The stallions snorted, whinnied, screamed, and ran riderless back down the trail. Two vaqueros broke from the cover of their hiding places and raced after them. A shot took one in the back, and his arms flew out as he slammed into the dust.

  “It is good,” Cha said, pouring powder and ramming a ball into place, “A good place for a trap.” He rubbed the stock of the old musket. Yes, it was different this time.

  Again the Yokuts fired and reloaded, but this time Cha brought his hand across his chest, making the sign for leaving, and they slipped away over the rocks to the mustangs. Silent as shadows fleeing a rising sun, they were gone.

  Two vaqueros lay in the dust, the trail soaking up their blood. Another had crawled for a few yards into the rocks before the musket ball stilled him. One horse lay dead in the trail, its feet out stiff with the shock of violent death.

  Ramón carefully scanned the rocks above, looking for a target. Nothing. They had ridden right into the trap. He had not been thinking straight. His blood ran too hot. Deciding his revenge would cost the lives of his amigos if he did not collect himself and hunt these Yokuts as he would the puma or grizzly, he settled back into the rocks to wait. He would be more careful next time.

  He leaned against a rock, out of sight of the cliff, and collected his thoughts. It would take them hours to regather their horses, if they could find them at all, and the Yokuts raiders would be hours ahead before the Californios could follow.

  But even if he had to go on alone, he would. A bead of sweat formed on his forehead and rolled down his cheek, He brushed a fly away. No more shots came. Raising his head, he scanned the rocks. Stick your head up, Yokuts bastard. Give me a target. Nothing.

  Inocente looked over and regarded his friend, who rose above the rock, offering himself as a target to the Indians, studying the escarpment. “Careful, Ramón,” he cautioned. “These Yokuts devils have learned to shoot. We are foolish to even try to follow.” They were outnumbered, almost equally gunned, and already going into the country of the Yokuts, following the cat into his lair.