By A. H. Holt
Genre – Western
Time Period – 1870’s
Location – Rio Grande
Description – Smart, loyal, and tough, John captures your heart, and the heart of “Andy” Blaine the heroine. Andrea is a bit of a tom-boy, but a beautiful, strong, and true western woman. John gets involved in the war for water rights on Silver Creek and neighboring ranches because his father seems to be involved on the wrong side of the law.
#Horses #Novel #Story #Action #Adventure #Romance #Western #Classic #Western Woman #Cowboy #Suspence #Thriller #Murder #Crime #Water Rights #Texas #Ranching #Heroine #Outlaw #Rancher #Texas #Family #Cattle #Cattleman #Hero
Pocket Book (4.25 x 6.875 in) – Coming Soon.
US Trade (6 x 9 in)- $16.90
Hardback (6 x 9 in) – Coming Soon.
Hardback with Dustcover (6 x 9 in) – Coming Soon
John Garrett tied his gear behind his saddle and left the Wilson ranch just before daybreak. He followed the old Butterfield stage road north for about thirty miles to the Rio Grande crossing just south of Mesilla. The first night on the trail he camped at Cooke’s Spring.
His goal that morning was to reach the hills before the sun was high. He said his farewells to the ranch owner and the other cowboys the night before he left. Buck Wilson had wished him luck, and John had assured him that if he ever rode for another ranch, he would come back and ride for him.
He didn’t explain why he was leaving, he simply said he had business that needed tending and a long ride to get to where that business was. Wilson knew enough not to ask questions.
John Garrett rode a long, rangy sorrel horse with the unlikely name of Prince. Sometimes he thought the name was kind of silly, but he named the horse when he was a colt because he was almost too showy to be a working horse. He was still showy, as well as big and powerful, and he was the best trail horse John ever owned. He lifted the reins and urged Prince to a mile-eating trot.
The second morning John broke camp early and rode two miles into Mesilla to stock up on supplies. There would be nights he would have to camp on the trail. Later in the day, working his way northwest from Mesilla, he made good time. He was determined to save his horses’ strength, so he stopped and made camp the second day after riding only twenty miles. He unsaddled Prince and rubbed him down thoroughly with his saddle blanket, then turned him loose to forage. There was little grass for him to find on the lower slopes of the Las Cruces Mountains.
“I have to take it easy and be patient,” John said to himself.
He desperately wanted to hurry, but he knew that pushing his horse too fast would be a foolhardy way to begin a journey of more than four hundred miles. A journey that would take him back to another life. A life he had sworn to forget.
Alec Gunnison’s visit brought it all sweeping back. The anger, and the sickness he felt every time he thought of that last day. The day he left the ranch he loved and expected to live on for the rest of his life.
He could still see Mason Garrett’s angry face, and the whip. Alec told John he had a duty to go home and help his father in his trouble.
“Well,” John thought, “I’m going home, but only because it’s my duty. When this is settled, I’ll never stay.”
It was the best time of the year to travel. Most late afternoons John found water and a good place to camp. Whenever possible he stopped at a large ranch. The owner or foreman was sure to offer a meal and a bed in the bunkhouse for him and feed for his horse. Occasionally he spent the evening and night at a mining camp or a small town where he could get a hot meal.
When he passed the night in a town or at a ranch John always took time to groom Prince well and feed him grain at night. He repeated the process before they started out the next day. The big horse had great stamina, but he was used to being fed grain regularly and it would preserve his strength.
John followed the route he had taken when he left his home six years before. Remembering how he burned with anger and bitterness as he rode away from all he loved was still painful. The anger had softened, but he was still bitter.
There was little in the way of a direct trail to follow in the direction he was traveling, but here and there a rough track was marked by wagon wheels. Those trails provided easy travel for a few miles until they turned in a different direction.
It was late August and rains came almost every afternoon. The slopes of the White Mountains were covered in patches of green. This was the only time of year when there was color on the mountains southeast of Silver City.
John turned north at a town called Deming that was once a stop for the Butterfield Stage, then his route turned northwest, keeping the Mimbres River on his left. The going was easy near the river and he made the hundred miles to Silver City in only four days.
This trail was once a favorite route of the Apache. The whole area was Apache territory. Ten years earlier no one would have been foolish enough to ride from Deming to Silver City alone. Only large well-armed groups were safe. But the Apache were gone. They had all been killed or tamed.
Leaving Silver City on a trail leading northwest to Buckhorn, John crossed a small river. He thought it probably was a branch of the Gila. After that crossing his route turned more to the north and passed a short distance east of Mule Creek on an old trail into the Mogollons.
It took several days for him to ride through the mountains. The valleys were covered in a thick growth of Grama grass providing plentiful welcome food for Prince.
As the trail led upward, he passed through areas covered in scrub oak, and then reached forests of the tall, graceful ponderosa pine. Up higher, he could see aspens growing on nearby slopes.
Most nights he camped near a creek or spring that lay under large cottonwoods or the tangled branches of willows. Game was plentiful. He often shot a rabbit from his horses’ back and ended the day by enjoying it for his supper, roasted over his campfire.
When he finally crossed the San Francisco River and turned west toward Clay Springs, John felt as though he had been on the trail a month, although he left the lake country and reached Clay Springs on his fourteenth day of travel.
Clay Springs was a beautiful place to camp. After removing his gear and unsaddling the horse, he led Prince to a grassy area about a hundred yards from the spring. He decided to stay at the spring for two full days to give the horse a rest. He saw a small herd of deer less than a mile before he reached the spring, and wanted to try to get a shot at one.
At daybreak three days later John broke camp and set off to the northwest. His route would turn sharply back to the east before he reached the Tonto and then it would join a trail running northeast into the mountains.
Deep in the mountains, he decided to make a last stop at a little town sitting across the trail that led to an unnamed river crossing. As he remembered, Ellison Grove wasn’t much of a town, but it would surely have a mercantile with the supplies he needed.
He looked forward to getting a meal someone else cooked and a good night’s rest in a bed for himself and a stable with a large bait of oats for Prince. He would be able to replenish his food supply and buy more ammunition.
He felt sure he could reach the cabin in no more than two day’s ride from Ellison Grove. He wanted to arrive alert and well rested and hoped the cabin would be empty, but he knew there was no telling what he would find.