From out of the dry and dense woods, the black stallion bore the rider. Like a writhing ghost, the giant black pranced around rotting tree stumps, and snorted uneasily at its shadow cast by a pale moon. He seemed to sense some sinister message from the forest, a message of death or destruction, perhaps both. His bulging muscles rippled, as the reins tightened the bit in his mouth. Halting in the shadows, he tossed his head impatiently. The rider sat motionless, alert and rigid. He could be in his late teens. Yet, he appeared as a man at the moment. His slim waist contained a crisscross mark on the worn and mended pants, as if two gun belts usually rode there with heavy pistols sagging close to the slender hips. His searching gaze took-in the homestead in front of him, well kept, but now suspiciously silent. Soft moaning winds glided through pine tree branches above him. The figure kept a vigilant eye on the silent cabin and its surroundings. His keen ears caught no sound. His nostrils did not smell burning firewood. Something was wrong with this arrangement, for the log cabin was Brad Stillwell’s home, and his mother also lived here. The wooden door was ajar, which was unusual, since animals of the forest visited the cabin in the evenings looking for scraps tossed to them by the cabin’s occupants. The rider’s knees pressed the stallion’s sides, and the black slowly walked a distance from the cabin, and then stopped. He snickered, as he felt the rifle being drawn from its scabbard, and his master whispering softly, as he stroked the black’s neck. Walking slowly toward the cabin, the figure gave the door a sharp push and flung himself into the room. His body became tense, as he waved the rifle menacingly about him. Only the mocking echo of the swinging door sounded He hurriedly viewed the darkened room now in disarray. He padded softly to a room in the back which also had been ransacked. Chancing a shot at him, if anybody was around, he lighted a lamp which for some reason still stood upright. Making sure he stayed away from the two windows, he again surveyed the main room Furniture was up-ended, some pieces ripped apart. Dishes lay scattered on the floor, many damaged beyond further use. Shelving hung precariously, ready to fall to the floor any moment. A wooden tray contained half-eaten fruit and peels. Two loaves of bread lay on the floor, both cut into slabs, some pieces showing gouges by tiny teeth, made by field mice. A tilted oil lamp lay on its side, the oil having seeped out, causing a dark stain on the hard-packed dirt floor. One section of the room had not been disturbed by the intruders. It contained a shelf with an open Bible. A second shelf, above the Bible, displayed a cross. Lamplight touching the face of the figure, revealed a youthful-looking face, which reflected a frown and worry lines. He could not locate his mother. He knew she was capable of defending herself with a rifle, and her trusty pistols. No weapons were seen. Hearing his stallion whinny an alarm, he opened the door and cautiously checked the yard. He recognized the pinto carrying a rider advancing toward the cabin. “How’s she?” Pierre asked, as he alighted. “I tied the mules an’ your Bess back ah ways. Couldn’t wait for them. Wanted to get here quick as I could.” “Ma’s not here,” Brad answered with a quivering voice. “Even her weapons are missing. I checked each room. She’s not here.” Pierre scanned the room noting the upheaval of furniture. He walked slowly, studying the floor for some sign. Kneeling, he scrutinized dark spots before him. He picked up an empty shell casing and then gazed at Brad. “This shell’s from your ma’s ol’ Henry,” he reported, in a quiet tone. “Blood spots on the floor. Don’t know if it’s hers or somebody else. She has to be here some place. Let’s look about.” The youth shook his head. “We don’t have a hiding spot,” he replied. “Before being killed by a falling tree, Pa and I dug out a portion under the floor a while back. Planned on using it if a woods fire came this way. We’d go down and escape the fire if the cabin burned. He didn’t want to use it though, as no way to get out, if trap door was plugged with burned junk. I’ve been trying to dig an escape tunnel, but it’s only three quarters done. I’m not good shoring up sides as Pa was.” Pierre gazed about the room and then looked at Brad. “Maybe she took it upon herself to get down there when she saw the killers coming,” he suggested. “After all, she was only one against many scoundrels.” Brad’s face looked doubtful. “She didn’t like it down there,” he offered, with somber face. “Was afraid of suffocating for lack of air once the opening was closed.” He started for the front door. “Must be some place else. Might be in the lean-to where I keep Blaze during nights.” “Hol’ up minute,” the bearded one said. “She needed a hiding place, not ah lean-to where everybody could see her.” He searched the dirt floor. “Where’s the opening to your dugout? We’ll check that first.”
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