The TOUCH OF FIRE

From "Chapter One"
1871, Arizona Territory
Someone had been on his back trail for most of the day. He had seen a telltale flash of light in the distance when he had stopped for grub around noon, just a tiny bright flicker that had lasted only a split second, but that had been enough to alert him. Maybe it had been the sun glinting off a buckle or a shiny spur. Whoever was back there had been just a little careless, and now they had lost the advantage of surprise.
Rafe McCay hadn't panicked; he had continued to ride as if he had nowhere in particular to go and all the time in the world to get there. It would be getting dark soon, and he decided he'd better find out who was tracking him before he made camp for the night. Besides, according to his calculations the tracker should be exposed on that long tree-line trail just about now. McCay got the field glass out of his saddlebag and stepped into the shadow of a big pine, making certain that no reflection could give him away, too. He trained the glass on the trail where he estimated the tracker would be and soon spotted the man: one rider on a dark brown horse with a right front stocking. The man was holding the horse to a walk and leaning over to examine the trail as they went. McCay had come that way himself an hour or so before.
Something about the rider was familiar. McCay kept the glass trained on the distant figure, trying to trigger his memory, but he couldn't get a good look at the man's face. Maybe it was the way he sat in the saddle, or maybe even the horse itself that gave McCay a gnawing sense that somewhere down the line he'd seen or met this particular man, and that he hadn't liked what he'd learned. But he just couldn't bring the man's name to mind. The rig on the horse wasn't unusual, and there was nothing about the man's clothes that was out of the ordinary, except maybe for his flat-crowned black hat trimmed with silver conchas --
Trahern.
McCay's breath hissed through his teeth.
The bounty on his head must have gotten pretty big, to attract someone like Trahern. Trahern's reputation was that he was a good tracker, a damn good shot, and that he never stopped, never gave up.
Four years of being hunted kept McCay from doing anything hasty or foolish. He had both time and surprise on his side, as well as experience. Trahern didn't know it, but the hunted had just become the hunter.
On the chance that Trahern might have a field glass, too, McCay remounted and rode deeper into the trees before circling back to the right, putting a small rise between him and his pursuer. If there was one thing the war had taught him, it was always to know the lay of the land, and he automatically chose courses that gave him, whenever possible, both cover and escape routes. He could cover his tracks and lose the bounty hunter here in the timber, but there was another thing the war had taught him: never leave an enemy on your back trail. If he didn't deal with it now, he'd have to deal with it later, when the circumstances might not be in his favor. Trahern had signed his own death warrant by trying to collect this particular bounty. McCay had long since lost any scruples about killing the men who came after him; it was a matter of his life or theirs, and he was damn tired of running.
When he had doubled back a mile, he left his horse concealed behind a rocky outcropping and made his way on foot to where he could see his original trail. By his calculations, the bounty hunter should be along within half an hour. McCay carried his rifle in a scabbard slung across his back. It was a repeater that he'd had for a couple of years now. It was plenty accurate for the distance, which was about sixty yards. He chose his cover, a big pine with a two-foot-high rock at the base of it, and settled into position to wait.
But the minutes ticked by, and Trahern didn't appear. McCay lay motionless and listened to the sounds around him. Birds were calling, undisturbed, having become accustomed to him since he hadn't moved for so long. Had something made Trahern suspicious? McCay couldn't think of anything he'd done. Maybe Trahern had just stopped to rest, cautiously putting more distance between himself and his quarry until he was ready to make his move. That was Trahern's way: biding his time until things suited him. McCay liked to operate that way himself. A lot of men had gotten themselves killed by taking the fight forward when the odds were against them.
Colonel Mosby had always said that Rafe McCay was the best he'd ever seen in ambush because he had patience and endurance. McCay could withstand discomfort, hunger, pain and boredom, divorcing his mind from it and concentrating instead on the job at hand. The growing darkness, however, opened up other possibilities. Trahern could have stopped and made camp for the night rather than try to follow a trail in the failing light. He might think it would be easier to spot a cook fire and just be lying back there biding his time; but Trahern was smart enough to know that a man on the run made do a lot of times with a cold camp, and only a damn fool slept by a fire anyway. A man stayed alive by building a small fire to cook, then putting it out and moving to another location to bed down.
McCay's own choices now were to stay right where he was and pick Trahern off whenever he did come down the trail, backtrack a bit more and try to find Trahern at his own camp, or use the darkness to put even more distance between them.
His horse whickered softly down by the rocks, and McCay swore violently to himself. He heard an answering whinny immediately, and the second call was right behind him. McCay reacted instantly, rolling and bringing the barrel of the rifle around. Trahern was about twenty yards behind and to his left, and it was a toss-up which of them was the most surprised. Trahern had cleared leather, but he was looking in the wrong direction, down toward McCay's horse. McCay's movement brought him swinging around, and McCay got off the first shot, but Trahern was already dodging to the side and the slug missed. Trahern's shot went wild.
The crest of the ridge was right behind McCay and he simply rolled over it, getting a mouthful of dirt and pine needles in the process, but that was better than taking a bullet. He spat the dirt out and got to his feet, bending low to keep the ridge line between him and Trahern. Silently he moved to his right, working his way back toward his horse.
He wasn't in a good mood. Damn it, what was Trahern doing wandering away from the trail like that? The bounty hunter hadn't been expecting anything, or he wouldn't have been so surprised at finding his prey right under his nose. Well, hell, sometimes even the best traps didn't work, but now Trahern was right on him and he'd lost the advantage of surprise.
He gained the shelter of another big pine and went down on one knee behind it, holding himself still and quiet while he listened. He was in a mess and he knew it. All Trahern had to do was settle down where he could watch McCay's horse, and McCay was trapped, too. His only chance was to spot Trahern before Trahern spotted him, and a lot of men had died trying to do that very thing.
Then a humorless smile lifted the corners of his hard mouth. There were only a few minutes of light left. If Trahern wanted to see who could snake around better in the dark, McCay was happy to oblige him.
He closed his eyes and let his ears catch every sound without the distraction of sight to dilute the message. He noticed a gradual increase in the chirping of insects and tree frogs, as the nighttime denizens went about their business. When he opened his eyes again, about ten minutes later, his sight had already adjusted to the darkness and he could easily make out the outlines of trees and bushes.
McCay slipped pine needles through his spurs to keep them from jingling and replaced the rifle in the scabbard on his back; the long gun would be too awkward to hold while crawling around in the dark. He removed his revolver from the holster, then eased down onto his belly and snake-crawled toward the cover of a clump of bushes.
The iciness of the ground beneath him reminded him that winter hadn't completely released its grip on the land yet. During the comparative warmth of the day he had taken off his coat and tied it to the back of his saddle. Now that the sun had set, the temperature was plunging.
He'd been cold before, and the pungent smell of pine needles reminded him that he'd crawled on his belly more than once, too. Back in '63, he'd completely circled a Yankee patrol on his belly, moving not three feet behind one guard, then returned to Mosby and reported the patrol's strength and the placement of the guards. He'd also snaked through the mud one rainy November night with a bullet in his leg and the Yankees beating the bushes for him. Only the fact that he'd been so thoroughly coated with mud had enabled him to escape capture that time.
It took him half an hour to ease back to the crest of the ridge and slide over it as sinuously as a snake going into a river. There he paused once again, letting his eyes go unfocused while he examined the surrounding trees for a shape that didn't belong, his ears listening for the stamp of a hoof or a horse's snuffle. If Trahern was as smart as he was supposed to be, he'd have moved the horses, but maybe he'd been too wary to show himself like that.
How long could Trahern stay alert, all his senses straining? The effort exhausted most men if they weren't used to it. McCay was so used to it that he didn't even have to think about it anymore. The past four years hadn't been much different from the war, except that he was alone now, and he wasn't liberating payrolls, arms, or horseflesh from Union soldiers. And if he was caught now, he wouldn't be released in a prisoner exchange; he'd never make it to any sort of lawman alive. The bounty on his head, dead or alive, guaranteed that.
He let well over an hour lapse before, moving one muscle at a time, an inch at a time, he began working his way closer to the rocky outcropping where he'd left his horse, stopping every few feet to listen. It was slow going; it took over half an hour to cover fifty feet, and he estimated he had at least a hundred yards to go. Finally he caught the faint scrape of a horseshoe on rock as an animal shifted its weight, and the deep, sighing sound of a sleeping horse. He couldn't see either his horse or Trahern's, but the direction of the sounds told him that his horse was still where he'd left it. Trahern must have decided not to take the risk of exposing himself long enough to move the animals.
The question now was, where was Trahern? Somewhere with a clear view of McCay's horse. Somewhere that afforded cover for himself. And was he still alert, or had his senses dulled from the strain? Was he getting sleepy?
McCay calculated that it had been about five hours since Trahern had walked up on him, which would make it only about ten o'clock. Trahern was too good to let himself relax his guard this soon. The early morning hours were when the senses dulled and defenses tumbled, when the eyelids were lined with grit and weighed about forty pounds each, when the mind was numb with exhaustion.
But wouldn't Trahern, knowing that McCay would know this, expect him to wait? Wouldn't Trahern feel fairly safe in snatching an hour or so of sleep now, reasoning that any try for the horse would come right before dawn? Or that startling a dozing horse would make enough racket to awaken him?
McCay grinned, feeling the recklessness flood through him. Hell, he might as well stand up and walk right up to the horse. The odds were the same no matter what he did. When it looked as if he was damned if he did and damned if he didn't, he'd learned that the most reckless choice was the one with the best chance of succeeding.
He worked his way closer to the outcropping that sheltered the horse, then waited until the shifting sounds told him that the animal had awakened. He waited a few more minutes, then rose silently to his feet and walked up to the big bay, who caught his scent and affectionately butted him with his head. McCay rubbed the velvety soft nose, then gathered the reins and as quietly as possible swung up into the saddle. His blood was racing through his veins the way it always did at times like this, and he had to clench his teeth to keep from venting his tension in a bloodcurdling yell. The horse quivered under him, sensing his savage enjoyment of the risk he was taking.
It took iron self-control to turn the horse and calmly walk it away, but the ground was too uneven to risk even a trot. Now was the most dangerous time, when Trahern was most likely to be awakened --
He heard the snick of a hammer being thumbed back and instantly bent low over the horse's neck as he reined it sharply to the right and kicked its flanks. He felt the sharp burning in his left side a split second before he heard the shot. The muzzle flash pinpointed Trahern's position, and McCay had drawn and fired before Trahern could get another shot off. Then the big horse bolted, encouraged by another thud from McCay's bootheel, and the darkness swallowed them. He could hear Trahern's curses even over the thunder of his horse's hooves.
Concern for both their necks made him rein in the horse before they'd gone a quarter of a mile. His side was burning like hell, and wetness was seeping down the side of his pants. His horse at a walk, McCay pulled off his glove with his teeth and felt around, finding two holes in his shirt and corresponding holes in his body where the bullet had entered and exited. He yanked his bandanna from around his neck and wadded it up inside his shirt, using his elbow to keep it pressed to the wounds.
Damn, he was cold! A convulsive shudder started in his boots and rolled all the way up his body, shaking him like a wet dog and nearly making him pass out from the pain. He put his glove back on and untied his coat from the bedroll, then shrugged into the heavy fleece-lined garment. The shivers continued, and the wetness spread down his left leg. The son of a bitch hadn't hit anything vital, but he was losing a lot of blood.
The guessing game started again. Trahern would probably expect him to ride hard and fast, putting as much distance between them as he could manage by sunrise. McCay figured he'd gone about a mile when he walked the horse into a thick stand of pines and dismounted. He gave the animal a handful of feed and some water, patted his neck in appreciation of his steadiness, and untied the bedroll. He had to get the bleeding stopped, and get warm, or Trahern was going to find him lying unconscious on the trail.
Keeping the canteen of water beside him, he wrapped up in the blanket and settled down on the thick layer of pine needles, lying on his left side so his weight would put pressure on the back wound while he pressed the heel of his hand over the exit wound in front. The position made him grunt with pain, but he figured the discomfort was better than bleeding to death. Sleeping was out of the question. Even if the pain would let him, he didn't dare let himself relax.
He hadn't eaten since noon, but he wasn't hungry. He drank a little water every now and then and watched the glimmer of the stars through the heavy tree cover overhead. He listened for any sounds of pursuit, though he didn't really expect Trahern to come after him so soon. The night held only natural sounds.
Gradually he began to warm, and the hot pain in his side subsided to a dull throb. His shirt was stiffening, which meant the flow of fresh blood had stopped. It was harder now to stay awake, but he refused to give in to his growing lethargy. There would be time for sleep later, after he'd killed Trahern.
It wasn't qu...