Ride a Fast Horse

Book 1: Captain Tom Skinner Western

by Kevin Warren

Genres: Westerns

Synopsis

Working cowboy Kevin Warren debuts with the first in a thrilling new Western series, infusing 1889 Arizona Territory with his deep, first-hand knowledge of the cowboy life—its long trails, forest fires, unbroken horses, rough characters, and the vast landscapes of the wild West.

For fans of classic Westerns by Louis L’Amour, Zane Grey, and Ralph Compton.

There are two sides to Captain Tom Skinner. One follows orders. One follows his gut. To keep the wild, untamed Arizona Territory safe, he’s going with his gut.

Damnable news has reached Fort Verde. Outlaw Jessup Henry and his gang of thugs are raising hell north of Santa Fe, one homestead massacre after another. Now they’re on the run in Arizona Territory evading the law. Cavalryman Tom Skinner’s command: charge south with his patrol and wipe them out. But Skinner knows the land. Military decree be damned, he’s deserting the wayward route—against orders—for the right one. There’s more at risk than his career. In Jessup’s path is the vulnerable ranch of his newfound love, Veronica, and her family.

After a race to deliverance, Skinner arrives too late. Veronika and her brothers are still alive but what his courageous gal’s been through pushes Skinner over the edge. Now it’s a breakneck gallop toward vengeance. Every outlaw on the Mongolian Rim is a target. Every bone-jarring mile is more treacherous than the last. This aims to be the bloodiest road a soldier’s ever tread. For Skinner and his prey, the one who rides hardest will be the last one alive.

Release date: May 23, 2023

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

Arizona Territory, 1889

In the bottom of a small depression, two fires burned twenty feet apart. Sweat-stained horses tied to creosote bushes and saguaros stood with their heads hung low around a cluster of filthy, exhausted men. The ground beneath them was hard and cold and covered with small sharp stones that worked on making the human body miserable and unshod hooves sore. The only firewood available had been scrounged from dead saguaros, which burned quickly and had to be procured at progressively more distant locations. For those who made wood runs, there was an anger-inducing suspicion that their share of meat had gotten smaller upon their return. The men had all made chairs out of their saddles and saddle blankets, but such seats took up room, and resentment flowed at those closest to the warmth. Woodsmoke, cooking meat, horse sweat, and the odor of unwashed men drifted on crisp desert air.

Jessup Henry sat with his back against the blackened base of a saguaro. Crooked yellow teeth ripped at a small piece of tough, poorly cooked meat. His long, thin face and beard were covered in layers of dust, and his hands were blackened with filth, except on the tips of his fingers, where the meat had washed them clean. The few mouthfuls of flesh in his stomach had helped calm the burn of hunger pains, but the satisfaction of a full stomach and the promise of renewed strength remained to be had. Jessup studied the camp and the men and schemed.

Jessup took heed of the rising tone of irritation in the terse conversations. He noted the quick, angry body language of the men, and he read and understood the tightness of their facial expressions. Sixteen men were sharing two small javelina, and the meat for some had spent little time on the cook fire. His blue eyes descended on Grady Hobbs, sitting to his right. Grady was a powerfully built man with a huge head, a short neck, thick forearms, and broad shoulders. At two hundred and ten pounds he was the biggest man in the group, and he never hesitated to use his size to intimidate. He sat motionless, but his eyes, like Jessup’s, remained restless. Jessup stayed patient, engrossed in his study of the men, and a confidence rooted in experience assured him that sooner or later an opportunity would rise.

Ricky Waters, one of Jessup’s followers, broke through the small talk and announced to the gathering of men in a loud voice, “You would think one of us coulda hung on ta something we could cook with.”

The meat was being cooked in various ways at both fires. At one fire, a large flat rock had been placed on its side near the edge of the flames. A few strips of meat draped from the top edge sizzled.

“Don’t know why you’re cryin’ about a cook pot, Ricky, cause dinner’s over,” a man named Pepper responded from the far side of the fire.

“You better be lying.” Ricky stood and walked over to the carcasses of the javelina.

The small animals lay on their backs, and their skins had been folded outwards flat on the ground to serve as a butchering table. With a hard blow from his sheath knife, Ricky broke the backbone up near the neck. He stepped on the hide with both feet, reached down, and gave the skeleton a hard tug and tossed it aside. Now he could extract the last bits of meat from around the head and up behind the ears at the top of the neck.

A small, skinny, gray-haired man named Colin groaned in frustration. He stood stiffly, stretched his curved spine for a moment, then, with a hunched body, walked over and repeated the process on the other carcass. Colin was the oldest man among them, and he was worn out riding with this bunch. He survived on the dregs: weak horses, used women, and the worst food and drink.

I’m leavin’ first chance I get. Maybe I’ll kill that wise ass when I do, Colin thought. He looked at Pepper, who was watching him intently with a broad, tight-lipped smile spread across his face.

The two of them got inquiring looks from others as they worked the carcasses.

“Anybody want to cook this gut?” asked Ricky. He gestured towards the gut pile that had slid into the gravel.

“I’ll be damned if I’ll eat guts,” said Colin, sensing the question was directed at him. “You can kiss my ass.”

Cusco, half Comanche and half white, and also low on the pecking order, came over to the butchering area. His knife dug into the gut pile, and he lifted a long piece of white intestine off the ground. He adjusted the slippery organ over his knife edge for grip and then, with a forefinger and thumb squeezing the gut flat, he ran his hand down its length, and emptied all of the contents. He flicked his hand vigorously to rid it of the partially digested food and then bit off a mouthful.

“Be better hot,” he said with a grimace, and moved back to the fire.

Jessup eased himself around so his pistol was easier to grab. He reached down and pulled the leather thong off the hammer, and his hand rested just above the deeply stained ivory grip. He looked towards Grady. The big man’s eyes were now focused on him.

In Jessup’s hand was a small pocketknife that he brought out for every meal. He used it to cut food that he could swallow in pill-size chunks because of a lack of upper teeth. Jessup tossed the pocketknife into his other hand and shifted his position, his eyes narrowed, the corners of his mouth curled downwards.

Silence momentarily reigned, the fires crackled, and far to the east the three-quarter moon had risen high enough that moonlight now swept down into the depression and over their camp.

Jessup snapped the pocketknife shut and slipped it into a vest pocket. Behind a thick dark beard, his jaw clenched. His gaze swept over the men a final time. He stood, stepped around the fire to where Colin and Ricky worked the carcasses, and stared down at them.

Ricky froze and avoided looking up at Jessup. Colin, crippled with fear, fell backwards from a squat into a sitting position, mouth wide open. Jessup ignored them and looked out at the others sitting by the fires. He gestured at the skin and bones of the carcasses and announced to the men. “These two little pigs ain’t enough.”

Three more steps put him next to a small chestnut colored-horse tied to a saguaro. He pulled out his sheath knife and buried it to the hilt in the front of the horse’s neck. The chestnut squealed, its hooves slid on the loose gravel as it sat back against its lead rope and tried to pull away. Jessup jerked the knife downwards and opened a three-inch tear in the carotid artery. Without pause, Jessup pulled his pistol, crouched, and drew back the hammer with a loud click. He leveled it at Cusco, who scrambled to his feet and tried to pull his own gun, but he was too slow. Jessup had the drop on him and the moonlight at his back.

Cusco froze. His hand gripped the pistol still in his waistband.

“Whatcha gonna do half-breed?” asked Jessup.

Tense seconds passed, and every man in the camp had a hand on a gun. Blood ran down the chestnut’s neck and leg, it coughed, staggered sideways, and pulled back on its lead rope.

Pepper stifled a nervous smile. “Hell, oh dear. We’re goin’ . . .”

“The horse was lame, Cusco. We need the food.” Grady cut Pepper off in a loud voice. He’d seen Pepper encourage killings too often, and he didn’t like his chances in a shootout in these tight quarters.

The chestnut’s blood rolled down its neck and legs. A gurgling sound emanated from its throat. It lurched forward putting slack back in the lead rope, lowered its head, wobbled, and spread its legs into a wide stance. The fires crackled and popped. Cusco’s hand remained on his gun.

When the horse collapsed, a hoof struck Jessup’s calf. He stepped forward just enough to get away from the horse, knowing it would soon begin to thrash.

Wardell, another half-breed and friend of Cusco’s provided the break. He stood slowly with his hands held wide, looked towards Jessup, and said in an even tone, “Why do you got to go about everything the wrong way?” Wardell remained silent for only a moment, then his voice doubled in volume. He addressed Cusco and made the request: “Let’s eat.”

On the heels of Wardell’s words, Jessup offered a truce. With a quick wrist movement, he tilted his pistol straight up and let the hammer down with another ominous click, yet he remained poised and ready and continued to stare down Cusco. “You want to eat or die?” The last two words slid from Jessup’s mouth one at a time, this was not a negotiation.

Cusco cussed under his breath and backed down. He pulled his hand away from his gun, slunk back into his seat, and looked away towards the moonlit hillside on the other side of camp.

Wardell leaned down over the sorrel with a knife in hand. In pursuit of the tenderloin, he cut a long slice along the side of the backbone before the last sign of life had left the sorrel’s body.

He planned that whole goddamn scene, thought Grady. He planned that as the easiest and quickest way to get a damn meal without an argument.

The huge amount of food eliminated the tension born of hunger from the group, but many eyes glanced at Cusco, who continued to brood in the moon shadow of a huge saguaro.

The fires crackled with piles of added wood, the smell of cooking meat was once again thick on the air, and more subdued conversations flowed as bellies filled. Cusco ate last. When he stood and moved to his dead horse, he wisely let Jessup see his gun jammed deep into his waistband. He jerked out his sheath knife and cut a large portion off the front shoulder, then squatted by the fire and cooked a meal. He would need his strength, for he would be afoot until the next raid, maybe longer: Horses were hard to come by.

By the time the moon was straight overhead no one could eat any more. Full-bellied men made themselves more comfortable. Several began to snore. Jessup rolled off his saddle pad and walked away from the group to urinate. He returned walking on the balls of his feet and carried his pistol in the shadow of his body, close to his side. When he achieved a predetermined spot among the sleeping men, he swung his pistol up, took a second to aim well, and shot Cusco in the back of the head while he slept. Startled men erupted off beds and scrambled away from the center of the camp, seeking cover, clawing for their guns. Horses pulled back, several broke free and skittered away, trampling men in their path.

Jessup’s voice rose above the commotion. “I got tired of watching my back.”

Dawn, the time of day when unbroken horses are most alert, found Tom Skinner headed for the round corral. This morning work promised to be more interesting than usual. There were eight new geldings bunched together in the main corral. They were all between four and six years old and were good-sized, well-put-together animals. Four had been ridden a few times, and the rest had been broke to lead on the way to Fort Verde.

The horses tensed and watched his approach. Their winter coats, raised for maximum warmth, looked clean and healthy. The dim light made their eyes hard to judge, but there were other ways to gauge temperaments. The compact buckskin on the near side of the bunch let its breath out quickly and spent more time and effort taking in scent than the others. Skinner valued a wary temperament; experience had taught him that horses mentally composed to question each and every stimulation usually offered surefootedness, quick reactions, athleticism, and trainability. Right away the buckskin became his top pick. Skinner peered under the highest rail and studied the horses. His forearms rested on a lower rail in the same spot they had many times before, a large worn metal coffee cup warmed his fingers while he waited for Chaco.

A door creaked open and lantern light spread onto the porch. Skinner saw his friend step out, stretch, and put on his floppy, narrow-brimmed hat. Skinner noticed that the short, leather riding whip Chaco wore throughout every day was already dangling from his wrist.

Chaco was a small man with a slim build, short-cropped black hair, and an inextinguishable smile.

“Morning Chaco,” Skinner called out.

“Buenos dias,” replied Chaco in a tone affected by the previous night’s lengthy poker game.

“How you feelin’?” asked Skinner, smiling.

“ Un poco mal. How about you?”

“Hell, I didn’t drink that much. I’ve been looking forward to getting into this bunch,” answered Skinner, gesturing towards the horses. “Muggs up yet?”

“He’s awake, but he ain’t too happy about it. Why don’t you let someone else top off these horses?”

“Why would I let someone else have all the fun?”

The horses jerked their heads up, spooked at the sound of a bucket striking the side of a plank wall.

“Damn it all!” Muggs rubbed his head with one hand as he appeared out of a small room that adjoined Chaco’s. His shirt hung open and exposed his full belly covered in dark curls of black hair. He looked up to see Chaco and Skinner greeting him with huge grins.

“Damn it!” he repeated, and strode around the side of the barn.

“Rider came in last night.” Chaco’s statement cut through Skinner’s chuckling.

“Is that right?” Skinner swung a hundred and eighty degrees to look across the parade ground at Col. Brickman’s office lit up by lanterns. “The big man’s up early. What time did that rider come in?” Skinner’s eyes swept over the rest of the fort. The administration building was completely dark. A lantern burned at one of the officers’ quarters, and from Chaco’s house. Weak light shone through the windows of the long bunkhouse where all the unmarried soldiers slept. Other than Brickman being in his office so early, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

“A little after midnight,” said Chaco.

“I guess we’ll know about it soon enough. In the meantime, let’s get that buckskin into the round pen. Time to go to work.”

The buckskin skittered into the pen and took two fast laps around the enclosure looking for an exit.

Skinner eased into the pen carrying a six-foot length of woven cotton rope. Corralled and now confronted by Skinner, the horse’s ears flattened, and his nose came up. He was ready to defend himself, but Skinner never gave him a chance. Skinner positioned himself near the rails and moved up behind the buckskin’s hip, which allowed the animal to move away from him. He pursued the animal along the rails and twirled the rope. Skinner changed the horse’s impulse from fight to flight with ease.

After four laps Skinner commented, “This is a pretty nice horse, Chaco.”

“He’s off the Harlow place. I guess they rode him a time or two, but they think he’s an outlaw.”

“Hell, this horse ain’t no outlaw. He’s just a thinker.”

“You sure you don’t want to let someone else be first up?”

“Nope.”

Skinner continued to move the horse around and around. The buckskin responded with a brisk high-stepping trot along the rails. Then, in frustration, it kicked out at Skinner with a hind leg. Skinner responded by flinging a loose end of his rope at the horse’s rear end, and pressuring the animal to move faster. After two more laps, the buckskin moved boldly and much closer to Skinner and kicked out again.

“Got some attitude, do ya?” Skinner spoke to both the horse and Chaco.

On the ends of his words the buckskin stopped hard, reared, and struck out at Skinner with his front feet. Skinner moved sideways, closer to the fence, and slapped the rails with the rope, then threw a loose end at the buckskin’s head. Frightened, the horse again sought distance and fled along the edge of the pen.

“Time to show him who’s boss.” After one lap Skinner made sure to escalate his conduct before the horse had a similar notion. Abruptly he crossed the round pen and confronted the animal head on, swinging the rope in small, fast circles by his side. The horse brought his hind legs forward, braked hard and reversed direction. Skinner and Chaco studied the pivot, and both noted that the inside hind foot had carried the horse’s weight all the way through the turn.

“Handles himself pretty good don’t you think?” said Chaco.

“Yep.”

Skinner kept firm control by rolling the horse back several more times, but he also took some pressure off by allowing the buckskin to slow its pace.

“He’s about over it.”

“Yep.” Chaco shook his head and grinned.

“Hell, he was easy.”

Controlled by the human, the horse lowered its head and ceded the battle for dominance. Skinner immediately quit pressuring the buckskin. He stopped and turned sideways to the horse to reward the behavior. The animal faced Skinner and snorted. Skinner took more pressure off, turned his back, and took several steps directly away. The horse followed him with short tentative steps. Skinner encouraged him and stepped backwards. The horse moved towards him. Skinner stepped back again. The horse twitched its ears, and nodded its head a few more times, and then walked right up to its new master.

“Easy now. No one’s gonna hit ya,” said Skinner. His voice was low and quiet. He allowed the horse to take in the scent of his hand.

After a few light touches to the horse’s nose Skinner spread his arms and advanced on the horse head on, “Back. Back.” The buckskin took two steps back, and immediately Skinner quit pressuring him.

Perched on the upper rail of the corral, Chaco watched with a wide smile.

“That a boy. Easy now.” Skinner turned his shoulder and moved away from the horse. The buckskin eased up closer to him.

It was clear to Skinner that this horse had been beaten. He could see it in the horse’s eye and sense by the quickly evolving attitude that the buckskin was a good-minded horse but had damage to repair from previous bad handling. He began stroking the animal on both sides and desensitized it to his touch. He reached over the horse’s neck with one hand and handed the short rope underneath with the other and pulled back, applying pressure to the buckskin’s lower neck.

“Back. Back.” As soon as the horse complied, Skinner instantly rewarded the animal by stopping the pressure. Skinner stepped back and moved to the rail. He picked up a halter and returned to the animal and was able to slip it on without trouble. This time when he applied pressure to the chest, he also pulled on the halter lead, and the horse made the connection.

“He’s tough on the outside, soft on the inside,” said Skinner stroking the horse’s neck. “I think I’ll go ahead and ride him right now.”

“You got it.” Chaco jumped down from his perch and picked up Skinner’s saddle and a blanket and pushed them under the bottom rail. He grabbed the mecate and bosal and hung them on one of the higher rails while Skinner continued desensitizing the horse. Both men ignored the newest recruit, Charlie, who trotted towards them from Brickman’s office.

“Captain Skinner, Col. Brickman wants to see you in his office right away,” he said.

“Thank you, Private.”

“You’re welcome, sir.” Charlie saluted crisply and waited for Skinner to salute back. Charlie wanted, even wished, that he could make a comment about horsemanship that wouldn’t sound inept. Perhaps something that would make these men’s opinion of him rise, but as usual nothing came to him except the deep feeling of inadequacy, so he spun around and moved off.

Skinner and Chaco both watched Charlie walk away. Charlie had only been at the fort two weeks, and so far, he had managed to annoy just about everyone. His all-consuming military correctness was only appreciated by Col. Brickman, who had been using Charlie as his personal servant.

Skinner looked at Chaco and jerked a thumb in Charlie’s direction, then shook his head.

Chaco smiled back, “Gonna be a rough week for that little cabrón.”

Skinner hated to break away from the buckskin while he had his attention, but he reached up and slipped the halter. The buckskin—released physically but more to its liking, psychologically—mustered some of its former attitude and bolted for the far side of the corral.

With Charlie quickly forgotten, Chaco tilted his head towards Brickman’s office. “How’s anyone supposed to get any work done around here?”

“Gotta go, damn it.”

“Hope it ain’t bad news.” Chaco added.

“Me too. Got a lot on my plate right now, I don’t need any distractions.”

Chaco chuckled. “You got Veronica on your plate is what you got. Make sure you pay attention over there and quit thinkin’ about her for one minute.”

“Shut up, Chaco.”

Skinner chuckled to himself and walked towards the colonel’s office, leaving Chaco with the buckskin. Chaco was right, he thought. Over the last four months he had become besotted over Veronica, ever since they met on the streets of Prescott, and he had withdrawn by degrees from those around him. A smile spread across his face as he thought back once again about the first time he laid eyes on Veronica.

“Dad, can I drive for a while?”

“Not now,” replied Leon.

Veronica took no offense at her father’s quick dismissal of her request. On this heavily traveled road the ruts were deep, varied in width, and it took considerable skill to keep a four-horse hitch moving in rhythm. And she was fully aware that her father not only loved the challenge of handling the reins, he was also coaxing the team into their best performance for their imminent arrival in Prescott.

Veronica took a strong grip on the rolled canvas cover above her head. She stood precariously and looked backwards over the top to check on Viking.

Trotting outside of the wagon ruts and ahead of the dust on a strong ten-foot lead, the family’s bay stallion kept pace. His chest, neck, and shoulders were blackened with sweat, but high on his sides and rump, dapples glistened beneath a layer of trail dust. The stallion took no notice of Veronica. His gaze remained focused on the land ahead. Veronica rolled her eyes in response to the stallion’s single-minded obsession, but she continued to stare, enthralled by the animal’s silken carriage and how the ends of his curly black mane and tail bobbed each time a hoof struck the earth.

From the corner of her eye, Veronica saw her father take off his leather glove and reach back to grab Muriel’s hand in an affectionate squeeze, acknowledging her fortitude now that the journey was almost over. He held her hand until the team broke rhythm in a short patch of deep sand. He quickly put his glove back on, reached forward, and then slid his hands backwards along the reins to a precise spot. In one choreographed motion, he flicked the left rein up and brought it down on the hip of the left wheel horse and lightly tugged on the right rein to chasten the lead mare.

“Maggie,” Leon called out in a firm voice. The mare’s right ear flicked backwards at him. “Ease up,” he said in a softer tone. When all four were once again on the same lead, he pushed his arms forward and shook the reins. “Hupp, hupp, git.”

As a team, the horses applied more speed, and the heavy wagon burst out of the patch of sand, back onto firm ground, and rolled on at a furious pace.

“Sit down, Veronica,” said Muriel, pulling at the folds of Veronica’s dress with one hand and gripping the bottom of her seat with the other.

The family had left their remote ranch on the Mogollon Rim three days ago. They’d traveled west along most of the rim’s length the first day. On the second day, they’d dropped into the sunbaked Verde Valley and then crossed to its western edge. This morning they’d climbed up onto the higher forested slopes that surrounded the Prescott Valley and then out onto the windswept plateau. It was a long trip between their ranch and Prescott, but other than the challenges of dealing with intense summer heat, the journey had been without incident.

Three years prior to this trip, on a hunting foray with friends, Leon had fallen for the Mogollon Rim, dead center in the Arizona Territory. The limestone outcrops, guarded by untouched stands of ponderosa pine, the hunting opportunities, and the idea of raising both his children and fine horses in this incredible landscape had become a goal for him.

It wasn’t until after Geronimo’s surrender to Gen. Miles that Muriel had agreed to move there. For years, her fear of Indian attacks and her stern business sense had trumped Leon’s desire to give up his lucrative but unrewarding job as dire. . .