Change of Plans

By Harvey Stanbrough

Sam Loredo is a former Texas Ranger who's weary of stupid people.

He's tired of chasing the bad stupid people who seem to stay up all night dreaming up bad things to do. And he's bone-weary of protecting the good stupid people who seem always willing to go out of their way to antagonize the bad ones.

Now he just wants to drop out, live and let live. But he has a plan. He plans to take a regular job. Maybe tending cows on a cattle ranch in El Paso. Or maybe in Arizona.
Anything would be all right as long as he doesn't have to clean up people's messes anymore.

But sometimes along the way, plans change. Sometimes there's no other way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: StoneThread Publishing
• Release date: Jun 24, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393089261

Harvey Stanbrough

Harvey Stanbrough was born in New Mexico, seasoned in Texas and baked in Arizona. For a time, he wrote under five personas and several pseudonyms, but he takes a pill for that now and writes only under his own name. Mostly. Harvey is an award-winning writer who follows Heinlein's Rules avidly. He has written and published over 100 novels, 10 novellas, and over 270 short stories. He has also written 18 nonfiction books on writing, 8 of which are free to other writers. And he's compiled and published 27 collections of short fiction and 5 critically acclaimed poetry collections. These days, the vendors through which Harvey licenses his works do not allow URLs in the back matter. To see his other works, please key "StoneThread Publishing" or "Harvey Stanbrough" into your favorite search engine. Finally, for his best advice on writing, look for "The New Daily Journal | Harvey Stanbrough | Substack."  

Book preview

Change of Plans

Harvey Stanbrough

a novella from

StoneThread Publishing

To give the reader more of a sample, the front matter appears at the end.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Change of Plans

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

Chapter 1

As Sam Loredo topped over San Agustín pass, the day wasn’t much over an hour old. A friendly but loud mocking bird had been following his progress since he’d left Aguirre Springs at the base of the pass. His shadow, and that of his horse, stretched away to the west along the dusty road. Now that the long slope up from the Tularosa Basin was behind him, it should be a good, easy day.

Down the other side of the pass and across the Mesilla Valley, he would make camp on the west side of the Rio Grande, then head west to Willcox in the morning. Maybe find Oney Johnson if he was still around. Either that or he’d ride south along the Rio Grande to El Paso and look up Ben Iverson. Both had been friends of Wes Crowley, so they were both to be trusted.

Then the mocking bird disappeared.

A sharp, familiar sound echoed among the sandstone rocks to his left.

A repeating rifle being cocked. Close.

He flung himself to the right off his roan gelding.

As the horse bolted ahead, an explosion sounded.

Sam landed hard on his right shoulder as the bullet splatted into the brown rock above him. He rolled once, crushing clumps of sparse yellow grass, and came up on his left knee. As his right boot heel shoved up a pile of sand and rocks, his Colt was in his right hand and cocked. He twisted hard left and brought the revolver to bear in both hands.

On a boulder thirty feet away, a man. His rifle still shouldered. His head and shoulders and neck craning for a view of the kill.

The Colt bucked, a white trail of smoke strained toward the rock, and the man disappeared.

Sam got his feet under him, cocked the Colt again as he ran across the road to the boulder.

He stopped against the boulder, quietly released a breath. Listened.

Nothing.

He edged around the boulder, leading with the Colt.

The man lay flat on his back, arms splayed. He was huge with a big square head. An angry red scar ran from the corner of his right eye almost to his mouth. His hat and a beat-up Winchester lay a few feet away. His black vest hung open, revealing a rough-cut thin silver star on the left chest of his sweat-stained white shirt. And he was very dead.

The top of his forehead lay open with a wide black gouge, brain matter and blood mixing with the dust on his face and in his brown, stringy hair. His worn, brown-canvas pants were topped with a leather belt darkened by sweat. Below them, his scuffed brown boots moved once, first one, then the other, as if trying to walk away. Then they lay still.

Quietly, Sam said, Well, there y’go. He looked about warily, listening. After a long moment, he lowered the hammer on his Colt and turned away. Where had his horse gone? He put one hand to the corner of his mouth and called, Charley J?

And brush rustled behind him, followed by a woman’s voice. Señor?

Sam crouched and turned, the Colt again in his hand, already cocked.

The woman froze in mid-stride, her arms to either side, her eyes wide and her eyebrows arched. She threw both hands out in front of her and screamed, "No!"

Thin, twisted-sisal cords, one longer and one shorter, dangled from both wrists. No gun, no knife.

Sam quickly averted the barrel of his revolver, straightened, and scowled. Damn it! Don’t run up on a man like that! He lowered the hammer on the Colt and slipped it into the holster. Even as he did, he was sorry he’d snapped at her.

The woman’s hands went to her hips. She frowned as if holding back a retort.

She was petite and pretty at about 5’2", maybe 20 years old, so only a few years younger than he. She was slender, too, with long black hair whipped by the wind that played among the rocks. She seemed grateful and defiant at the same time, with a touch of fire.

Her dress was plain, sleeveless, and the same dun color as the rocks. It fell to a few inches above her knees. The filthy bandana tied loosely around her throat didn’t belong.

Her feet were bare and covered with dust. There was something touching about that, and he almost smiled. But similar cords were tied around and ankles, again with a short bit dangling from each ankle. That stopped him. She’d been through something rough.

Her frown disappeared as quickly as it had come and she extended her arms again, her palms up, her eyes pleading. "Please. Please help. She paused and frowned again, moved her hands back to her hips. Se habla español, señor?"

Nah, I don’t talk much Mexican. Habla inglés?

The girl nodded.