The Savage Breed. Randy Denmon
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THE SAVAGE BREED
RANDY DENMON
All new states are invested, more or less, by a class of noisy, second-rate men who are always in favor of rash and extreme measures. But Texas was absolutely overrun by such men.
—SAM HOUSTON
Contents
Prologue
PART ONE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
PART TWO
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Prologue
Presidio del Norte, Republic of Texas, April 1846
Travis Ross sat on the porch of the dusty, adobe office, where he usually spent his early evenings, swaying tranquilly in his rocking chair. His right leg crossed over his left, and he played with one of his spurs as he looked out over the mesa at a marvelous rainbow on the horizon. The sun was at his back. And the checkerboard of green and granite, dotted with colorful cacti, yuccas, wildflowers, and sage, gently danced with the late afternoon breeze. Above, a quarter moon rose against the clear, blue sky, and the high-pitched howl of a far-off coyote drifted over the landscape.
Travis loved the evenings. And this one was as beautiful and serene as any he had witnessed. He sucked in a deep breath and picked up his jug of whiskey. His temperament was disgruntled, as it had been for almost as long as he could remember. The day had been long and boring, like all the days for months. He felt as if something was dying inside. He had been in this world for forty years now, the last few the unhappiest. He sensed he was going nowhere; he had nothing to keep his mind occupied, as if he were only waiting around to die in this land so far from anywhere.
He stared out at the brown Chisos Mountains—only a tangled, mysterious mass of lava outcroppings—falling away in the distance and hovering like a raised oasis in the throes of the desolate Chihuahuan Desert. The peaceful mountains put him in a reflective mood, let him sort through his memories and think back to more blissful times. The sound of leather boots on the wood plank floor behind him broke him from his thoughts.
“Those fence posts aren’t going to unload themselves,” his longtime partner, Chase McAlister, scoffed in a loud, irritated voice from the doorway behind the porch.
Travis did not nuisance himself with turning to look at Chase, but did glance down at the ramshackle horse wagon loaded with pine posts in front of the porch. “If you thought I was going to unload ’em while you were in there taking a nap, maybe it’s getting time for you to take up the rocking chair.”
“Wasn’t taking no damned nap—paying the bills, doing some paperwork. This is a business, if you haven’t forgotten,” Chase countered. “Ranchin’s a tough job.”
“I don’t know if those posts will ever get unloaded,” Travis said lazily. “You done run all the Mexicans off—worked ’em to the bone. Sent ’em all back across the river. It’s bad when life is better in Mexico than it is at the M&R Ranch. It’s only my gambling and cardplaying prowess that enables us to eat around here. I’ve got Hancho in there so indebted, he can’t afford to quit cooking for us. You ought to be grateful for that.”
“I’m going to run Hancho off if he keeps letting those chickens run loose around here—stinks the place up and makes us look like a roughshod outfit. You, too, if you don’t start doing something.”
Travis lifted his jug to his mouth and took a big swig. “You promise? I’ll make you a deal: you can have my half of the riches we’ve made here.”
“You ain’t supposed to be drinking during working hours. You’re supposed to be working.”
“I am working. On the lookout for Indians. You know, those red-skinned heathens that gave you that big scar on your chest. Don’t know what we’re going to do when the Mexicans close that fort across the river. Besides, I need a drink every now and then. Ain’t seen a white woman in months.”
“I guess this is my folly. Thinking I could come down here and christen a ranch with the biggest loafer in Texas.”
“Hell, no, it’s my fault. I was dumb enough to sign on. Sounded romantic, sitting around the bar in San Antone. Maybe you’re right. I should give up whiskey.”
Travis heard the footsteps again. They got closer to the front of the porch. He slowly turned to look at the tall, rugged, powerful figure, resting his broad shoulders against one of the porch columns. Chase McAlister was a month short of forty. His brown hair was departing and his skin looked wind weathered and tan. He had a square jaw—a brawny, confident face. But overall, his appearance was youthful, contrasting with his alert hazel eyes; they told of age and wisdom. And he carried a strange swagger of vanity and virtue. Most knew he had the character and stomach to back it up. Travis looked at Chase’s knee-high leather boots, leading up to his brown cotton trousers, topped with a leather waist holster holding a Colt five-shot revolver—above the pistol, a neat, white, button-down shirt. Travis’s partner was his opposite—someone content to be alone.
“We got company coming.” Travis picked up his jug again and nodded to the dirt trail leading up to the ranch house, an unsightly scar on the pristine landscape. A few stems of dust stood above the mesa, a quarter mile distant. Just as he spoke, Travis discerned a horse bouncing through the illusion of the belated sun.
“Hell, if my vision’s not failing me, I believe that’s Chester Woods,” Chase said in a matter-a-fact way.
Travis squinted, but the light buzz from his jug precluded good focus. “Chester? What the hell’s he doing way out here?” Travis sluggishly got to his feet with interest. Guests were rare at the M&R, and his spirits perked at the thought of a new sparring partner, someone other than Chase. He might even be able to get up a card game, one that might actually require the use of his brain.
Travis put his right hand above his eyes as the tall sorrel trotted up to the porch, kicking up a small dust storm. He looked at the rider, who pulled back on his reins, bringing his horse to a sliding stop in front of the porch. Atop the horse and awash in dirt, Chester was only a body clad in trousers, topped with a white shirt and hat. “I’ll be damned,” Travis said. “The Texas Rangers finally got here. You’re too late. We already run off all the Comanches.”
Chester wiped the earth from his brown eyes and young, unshaven face before removing the hat from his sandy blond head. With a subtle smirk, he looked around briefly at the