“He then swung north, as though headed for the Chisos Mountains, but after the bay ran himself out and slowed to a tired trot, then a walk, Cannan headed back toward the river. He was physically drained from the ball-bouncing ride and from the newly opened wound in his side that pained him considerably and oozed blood like rust-red pus. But Cannan forced himself to grit it out. There was something wicked across the river that threatened Last Chance, and it was his duty as a Ranger to seek it out... and destroy it. Despite his misery, Cannan smiled, mocking himself. It was big talk from a near-cripple who was only fair to middling with a gun and could barely sit his saddle. Still, he had it to do. That was the Ranger way and he knew no other. The moon-glow lighting his way, Cannan rode to the bank of the Rio Grande, just west of town, and drew rein. Around him the brush desert was silent, empty; though dried dung told him that cattle had come this way. He stared across to the opposite bank and saw only darkness.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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