Run Of The Arrow-chapter-3 Ashes of Vengeance

The
sun was a searing orange blister above the Texas scrubland when
Quinn, a man whose boots knew the dusty rhythm of solitude, first
smelled the smoke. He topped a low rise and reined in his weary
sorrel. Below, a scene of brutal destruction lay sprawled like a
discarded hand of cards.

It
was a burned-out wagon, its canvas gone to ash, its wood still
smouldering. The air was thick with the scent of charred oak and
something metallic, something like spilled blood. The wagon hadn't
been wrecked; it had been torched.

But
what drew Quinn's eye was the man.

He
was tied, spread-eagled, to one of the scorched wagon wheels, the
leather of his binds cutting deep into his sun-leathered skin. His
face, smeared with dirt and despair, turned toward Quinn, and a raw,
ragged sound tore from his throat.

"Water...
God in Heaven, a soul!"

Quinn
dismounted, his movements economical and practised, the heavy
Colt........ .45 on his hip a comforting weight. He ignored the man's
immediate plea, his gaze sweeping the horizon for signs of the
attackers. There were fresh hoof prints, many of them, heading
south-west.

"Who
did this?" Quinn's voice was low, gritty, like sand catching in
the wind.

The
bound man struggled, his breath coming in shallow, frantic gasps.
"Comancheros! They hit us at dawn. Took everything. But... but
that ain't it. That ain't the worst of it." Tears cut clean
paths through the grime on his cheeks. "They took my boy.
Tom. Just eight years old."

Quinn
drew his Bowie knife and sliced through the rope holding the man's
left wrist. "Easy, friend. What did they want?"

"Me!
They wanted me,"
the man choked out, rubbing his raw wrist. "They was looking'
for the silver I was carrying'. Didn't find it. So they... they took
Tom
instead. Said I had three days to bring the fortune to their camp or
they'd put the boy's scalp on a lance." He shuddered violently.
"They... they're camped at the dry riverbed. North of the Three
Sisters peaks. Please, Mister. I can't ride. My leg's broke. You
gotta save my son."

The
man, who introduced himself as Jedediah, pointed a trembling finger
toward the south-west trail. "Them tracks you see... they lead
right to the canyon mouth. They'll be there tonight. Don't let 'em
touch a hair on his head, Mister. Please.
I got nothing' left but that boy."

Quinn
looked from the charred ruin to the desperate father, then to the
sun, which was beginning its slow, bloody descent toward the peaks.
Comancheros—renegade bandits, Mexican and Indian alike, renowned
for their savagery and greed. This wasn't a simple rustling; this was
a kidnapping, cold and cruel.

He
gave Jedediah a sip of water from his canteen and a handful of jerky.
"Stay put. I'll tie your bad leg with my saddle strap for now.
You won't make it to any town before they come back for you."

Quinn
swung back onto his sorrel. He didn't speak the promise aloud, but it
hung in the air, heavy as the smoke. He was a man who preferred to
let his actions do his talking.

"The
dry riverbed," Quinn muttered, pulling his wide-brimmed hat low.
"North of the Three Sisters."

He
nudged the sorrel, urging him into a steady lope. The tracks were
clear, a deep, arrogant trail of men who feared no reprisal. Quinn
settled into the saddle, his eyes narrowing to slits against the
glare. The burning wagon was already receding behind him, leaving
only a dark smudge against the evening sky.

Quinn
was heading toward that smudge, toward the Comanchero camp, where a
little boy named Tom was waiting, and where vengeance was due to be
paid in lead and blood.

The
moon was a sliver of bone in a sky dark as coal. Quinn rode until the
last vestiges of twilight were gone, then tethered the horse in a
shadowed draw miles from his target. From there, he moved like a
phantom—a long shadow creeping across the broken terrain of the
Devil's Backbone canyon lands.

He
had followed the signs: broken twigs, the faint scent of woodsmoke,
and the precise, cruel pattern of the Comanche’s boot prints.

He
reached the canyon rim overlooking the camp. It was a miserable,
rough-hewn place—a small fire burning low in the center, encircled
by four saddles and six tethered, swaybacked horses. The shadows of
three men moved restlessly around the flames.

Quinn
eased himself into a patch of dark shale and scrub brush, lowering
his body until he was practically fused with the earth. His
Winchester lay beside him, the cold steel comforting in the darkness,
but for now, the rifle was useless. He needed to be closer.

He
lay there, utterly still, the desert chill seeping into his bones,
searching for the kid. His senses stretched taut, absorbing every
sound. The low, guttural murmur of Spanish, the crackle of the fire,
the nervous shuffle of the horses.

He
watched the men. They were crude, rough creatures, faces masked by
the gloom, their wide-brimmed hats casting them in perpetual shadow.
They were playing cards, their voices low and sharp. Quinn scanned
the perimeter again and again, his gaze lingering on every shadow.

Quinn
took a deep, silent breath, the desert dust filling his lungs. He was
alone, and the only light he had to work with was the pale,
indifferent glow of the distant stars.

He
knew what had to happen next. He had to cross the final, treacherous
ground. He had to get in close enough to find the kid, and when he
did, the silent hunt would become a savage fight for life.

Quinn,
a shadow carved from the high desert night, moved with the unnatural
stillness of a hunting wolf. His boots, worn soft by a thousand
miles, didn't so much as crush the brittle winter grass as settle
upon it.

He
was deep inside the Comanchero camp.

Quinn
paused behind the skeletal branches of a mesquite tree, his eyes, the
color of wet slate, absorbing the faint light cast by the crescent
moon. Ahead, two sentries huddled by a small fire, their Spanish
gutturals muffled by the distance. One was cleaning a rusty rifle,
the other idly chewing on dried jerky. They looked bored, careless.

The
big bowie knife in Quinn’s hand, a family relic with a wicked,
upswept point, seemed to disappear into the black cloth of his
sleeve. He didn't carry a firearm for this kind of work; noise was
death.

He
circled wide, using a low embankment for cover, his breathing shallow
and regulated. He approached the first guard from behind, a sudden,
devastating phantom. The man never heard the approach, only the faint
swoosh of disturbed air and the crushing pressure of Quinn’s
calloused hand clamping over his mouth.

The
knife was brutally efficient, silencing the man's terrified thrash
almost before it began. Quinn eased the limp body down, a dark heap
blending instantly with the shadows.

The
second guard looked up, alerted by some primitive warning, but it was
already too late. As his eyes widened in surprise, Quinn was upon
him, fast as a striking rattlesnake. The Comanchero struggled, a
choked, desperate sound fighting its way past Quinn's arm. It took a
moment longer, a silent, vicious wrestling match, until the guard
went slack, his rifle clattering softly against the stones.

Quinn
retrieved the weapon, placing it silently beside its owner. He wiped
the cool steel of his blade on the dead man's coarse trousers, his
expression remaining utterly blank, then sheathed the bowie.

Two
down. Now, for the boy.

The
main camp was a tangle of crude tents and brush lean-tos, but he knew
the Comancheros kept their most valuable 'merchandise' separate. He
moved toward a small, reinforced adobe shack near the rear, its
single window dark and shuttered.

He
slipped the leather thong off the door latch, easing it open just
enough to slide inside. The air was stale, close, and smelled of dust
and fear.

In
the corner, curled on a filthy blanket, a small form shuddered.

Quinn
knelt slowly, letting the low light catch the silver conchos on his
belt just long enough for the boy to see him.

Tommy,
his face streaked with dirt and tears, was trembling violently, his
small hands clutched over his knees. He looked up, his eyes huge and
terrified, and then, recognizing the shape of a white man's hat and
the comforting, low murmur of English, he broke.

"Where’s
my daddy?" the boy sobbed, the sound thin and fragile.

Quinn
didn't speak. He reached out, his big hand gentle, and rested it
lightly on Tommy’s shoulder. The boy launched himself forward,
burying his face against the rough wool of Quinn's shirt, shaking
with silent, terrible relief.

"It's
alright, son," Quinn whispered, his voice a dry rasp. "We're
going home to daddy now."

He
scooped up the small, light weight, holding the frightened boy close
against his chest. Quinn turned toward the open doorway, his eyes
already scanning the darkness outside. The hardest part was over, but
the camp was still sleeping, and the night was long.