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To Catch a Shadow (Shadow Series #3)

By Tina E. Pinson

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Chapter One
Riding hard after leaving Rebekah, Matthew met his men a day and a half's ride south. They looked just as saddle weary as he felt, but no one wanted to stop until they found the missing wagons. After another day they tracked the wagons and mules to a dry gulch, but found one wagon hadn't taken the path in the rocks. It continued west, tacking slightly north.
From Matthew's vantage point, it looked like a small band of Cheyenne had absconded with the wagons and team. The gulch they holed up in opened into a boxed canyon surrounded by rolling bluffs. Perhaps they were in need of food?
Matthew scooped up a handful of sand and let it run through his fingers as he studied the situation from his perch. By the look of the horses corralled below, the thieves had taken more than his wagons and mules, and they'd been at their business for some time.
They had a neat little operation and had built a small fortress about themselves for comfort. The weathered buildings had been there for a while, maybe longer than the inhabitants they sheltered.
Beside two corrals stood a cookhouse that looked ready to blow over with the first stiff breeze, and one cabin, which by the look of the timber, was the newest addition to the small town below. Two rumble down shacks served as bunkhouses and appeared large enough to house several men.
How many men were down there now? At last count, it appeared to be about twelve. A ragtag group from the looks of them, leading Matthew to believe someone else ran the whole operation.
At dusk two men rode into the canyon, and Matthew recalculated how many men waited below. When three more men road out shortly thereafter, Matthew decided it must be the changing of the guard and refigured his count. He watched the direction of the leaving riders and dispatched three of his own men to incapacitate them. The eleven in the camp would be of no consequence unless they came out.
Waiting for the cloak of darkness, Matthew and the eight men riding with him snuck into the camp.
Taking out the night watch was relatively easy. Getting a wagon and some stubborn mules out of the narrow canyon would be a might bit more tricky. The best course of action; get the corralled horses running out the gate and use them and the dust they'd kick up for cover.
Matthew slipped past the bunkhouses, making his way to the corral, checking through the dirty window to assess the enemy -- most of whom he hoped were down for the night. A few men lounged around a table, playing cards and drinking, but none saw him. They weren't Indians now. Most were white, save one who wasn't a full breed either.
They played a part for someone. Who?
Matthew crept past the bunkhouses, moving toward the rear of the canyon. Once his men slipped into place, the signal would sound. He'd open the gate and get the horses worked up and running.
He found a shadowed spot and waited. Everything seemed to go smoothly until he saw a shadow fall over him. Where had he come from? He must have been sleeping in one of the corrals, because he certainly hadn't been counted.
Matthew waited, trying to judge the man's closeness by the length of the shadow he cast - - the shadow loomed larger with each step. He stayed crouched until it looked like the man was close enough to touch, then quickly rose to face his attacker. He realized he'd almost waited too long when the knife stung his forearm.
Slick warmth ran along his arm, probably turning his shirt crimson, but the cut didn't stop him. His attacker opened his mouth to sound the alarm, and Matthew uppercut his chin with a firm fist, then slammed his rotund gut.
The man took a deep breath and doubled over, tumbling toward the dirt, but managed to grab Matthew, dragging him down.
Scuffling, Matthew got a closer look at his opponent. He wasn't an Indian either. He wondered if his earlier suspicions of a bigger boss weren't right. Ben Holladay rose to mind. Maybe he had the wagons stolen. Matthew couldn't stop to consider it; he had a fight on his hands.
His opponent, a big man, reeked of bad whiskey, and moved in a lumbering gait like he'd just belted back a few. The foul smell, mixed with the man's sweat, set Matthew's stomach churning.
Drunk and overweight, the big man's fists flew, but few made contact. The man wrapped beefy arms about him, but Matthew twisted and managed to get behind him. He held the man's mouth to keep him quiet, then pulled his knife and silenced him forever.
Untying the bandana from his neck, Matthew wrapped his wounded forearm, and took a cautious look around to make sure no one had heard the scuffle. Satisfied no one was about, he moved out of the shadows.
When the soft whistle sounded -- signaling the men were in place -- he was ready.
With little exertion on Matthew's part, the horses were running, and the sound of thunder shook the dark. It took a few moments before startled men in various shades of undress filtered from the shacks like ants from a hill. A couple stumbled out with guns and managed to get a few shots off.
Spurred by the sound of gunfire, the mules didn't hesitate, and the wagon moved out without mishap. Two of Matthew's men took slugs, but no lives were lost.
The same couldn't be said for the bandits. Matthew saw some fall, but didn't stay to address their wounds or count their losses.
The moon high, the men took the wagon and rode south, hoping they'd run into the escort Chivington promised before they reached Denver.
Matthew rested a couple of hours then picked up the trail for the second wagon from the mouth of the gulch with the sun. It led west to the burned out shell of the supply wagon sitting in a small forest of cottonwood trees. Hoof tracks cut deeper into the earth around the wagon, telling him the supplies were transferred and packed out. He followed the trail for the rest of the day and into the next, tracking west. It turned south for a time, then turned west, and finally started to tack north. His suspicions became clear. The thieves were headed for Fort Laramie. His stolen goods should be at the fort when he arrived, or close by. He gave himself time to rest, as much as one could with the prairie dogs barking, then he rode northward for Laramie, where he hoped to find his stolen goods. Where he hoped his family waited.

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