a-science-fiction-western-series-set-in-the-old-west-chronicles-of-the-maca

A Science Fiction Western Book Series Set In The Old West

Chronicles Of The Maca by Mari Collier

Series Excerpt

Millard Hurley fought to unhitch the mules from the last wagon and get them hobbled. His shoulders were strained and hurting from the effort and one of the damn mules had stepped on his foot. It had been a fight with the mule teams everyday. His employers were not shy about telling him they were replacing him in the next civilized town.

Millard was in his middle forties with a sun lined face and graying hair, his exact age uncertain. Who bothered with such things anyway? He wouldn’t have been hired out of Lawrence, Kansas except the other man had the bad luck to keel over dead. Millard was convinced the mules must have brought on a fit of apoplexy.

Rolfe appeared with an antelope. God knew how the bastard could find game when no one else could. Not in this dry, rocky place. MacDonald had hobbled and fed his horse and now was starting a fire behind one of the wagons. Dust stirred with every movement. This was a hellish part of Texas, all sand and rock unlike the prairie they just came through. MacDonald and Rolfe were delivering supplies to one of the new Army forts that had sprung up since the Mexican War. Millard was seriously wondering why he had agreed to work for them. These two drove men like animals and treated the animals better than men. He would have preferred a wagonload of whores instead of sundries for the dragoons.

Rolfe threw the antelope down and started to dismount when his horse began lifting its nose to the wind.

“Mac, something ain’t right. Saddle your horse and bring your rifle. Hurley, du best grab your gun and be ready to ride a mule.” He swung his horse around to gaze at the horizon.

MacDonald never questioned Rolfe’s instincts. He tossed dirt over the fire, grabbed his rifle and saddle before running towards his horse. On the horizon appeared a line of warriors that broke into a gallop, whooping and shaking something in their hands that looked like a stick with feathers on it.

Millard tried to mount the mule and was promptly dumped on his backside, cursing mules and the men who had brought him to this godforsaken country.

Rolfe aimed a shot at the oncoming men.

“Vhat du think, Mac?”

“There’s too damn many of them.” MacDonald voice roared out over the mesquite and scrub brush savanna.

Millard was fighting the mule, trying to get it to stand still. The roar of Rolfe’s Henry had startled the mules and they began running, some towards the oncoming men, others back the way they had come. There was a sinking feeling in his stomach and he raised his fist to hit the mule when he was grabbed from behind and lifted bodily off the ground.

MacDonald had one arm around his chest and was carrying him as his feet made running motions.

“Hold still till we get off a ways. Then ye can mount behind me,” came the roar in his ears and mind.

How the hell was the man holding on to him? Millard didn’t care. A couple of the yelling bastards were riding after them, but the other yells seemed to grow dimmer.

Rolfe and MacDonald raced around a boulder and drew up.

“Get on behind me.” Millard found himself dumped on the ground and MacDonald’s hand extended downward.

Rolfe had slid off his horse and took a quick shot around the rock. Then he jumped back in the saddle and pointed to the north before riding off. With a nod, MacDonald followed.

Two hours later they pulled up and dismounted. Rolfe took a swig out of his canteen and looked at MacDonald.

“Vhere’s yours?”

“Back in the saddlebag that tis on the ground.”

“Damn careless.”

“Aye, it twas.”

Millard was shaking. “Be they gone?”

“Mayhap.” The big man shrugged. “What do ye think, friend Rolfe?

“I think they chased down the mules and now they’re having a party mitt our goods and tonight’s dinner. Vhat the hell do du think they’re doing, Mac?”

The big man let out his breath. “Any chance we can make our own attack and recover our merchandise?”

“Vhen ve stopped at that boulder, I saw smoke. Vhat they ain’t took, they’ve burned along mitt der vagons.” Rolfe fought to keep the German out of his speech. “Damn Kiowa. Du think the Comanche vould keep them too busy to bother mitt us. Ve need to move on, Mac. Ve valk the horses now and find wasser, then a good place to camp.”

“What about food?” Millard was regaining his courage.

“Ve go hungry tonight. No fire, and don’t complain. Du damn lucky to be alive.” Rolfe glared at him and Millard swallowed. Rolfe probably would have left him back at the wagons.