HOOVES POUNDING the misty ground, the companions rode hell-bent for leather through the early Carolina morning. The Flat Rock sec man had chased them for miles through the night, but Baron Polk had dealt fair and given the companions his best mounts. They easily outdistanced the older nags. However, soon after losing the sec men, they began to hear the long howl of hunting dogs. Hounds were a lot faster than horses on a short pull, and the companions were forced to slow and try to stealthily evade the relentless dogs.
“It’s been a couple of hours since we heard them,” J.B. said, glancing over his shoulder. “I think we finally lost them.”
“Can’t hear anything,” Krysty said, closing her eyes to listen hard. The breeze rustled the leaves on the trees and a small animal was being eaten alive by something that purred, but nothing else. No barking dogs, no shouting riders. “I think we lost them.”
“Said so,” Jak stated. “Double back over creek, sprinkle black powder. Works good.”
“My black powder,” Doc complained, uncomfortably rolling to the gait of his animal. At least he still had enough for a few reloads, which was better than nothing.
Reaching a creek, the companions reined in their mounts and let the wheezing animals drink for a while, before forcing them onward.
“But they were still thirsty,” Dean said, stroking the sweaty neck of his pinto mare. She nickered in response, her long ears twitching happily.
Rocking at the hips to the gentle stride of his stallion, Ryan answered, “Never let a horse drink its fill. Slows them down too much. They get enough to stay healthy, no more.”
“Should feed them soon,” Krysty added, leaning forward as her mare daintily stepped over a pile of bricks. “We left in such a rush, we forgot to bring along feed.”
Tightening her thighs, and holding on to the pommel of her saddle with both hands, Mildred leaned sideways and studied the grass rising from the low mist. “Plenty of grass around,” she said, swinging back upright. “It shouldn’t hurt them too much to live on just summer grass for a while.”
“Okay, short break,” Ryan said, reining his stallion to a stop. “No fire, cold food only. Stay alert. We leave in five minutes.”
Guiding the horses to a nice section of grass, the companions tethered the reins to bushes and tugged hard to make sure they were secure. Shaking themselves to adjust to the lack of weight on their backs, the horses relaxed and began chomping at the tender blades, munching contentedly.
Opening his saddlebag, Dean took out an MRE envelope and ripped it open. Most of the food packets he dumped back inside the bag, but he kept the one marked Creamed Beef. Ripping off a corner, he sucked the food down and stuffed the empty foil back in the saddlebag. Loose trash on the trail would lead the dogs to them like bees to honey.
“Hey, Dad, can horses eat apples?” Dean asked, wiping off his mouth with a pocket rag. “There are some trees over there.”
“Sure can,” Ryan said around a mouthful of dried fish. Swallowing, the man looked over the area and nodded in approval. “Go gather a bunch. Doc, stay with him as cover.”
Pulling up his pants, Doc stepped into view from behind a bush. “Certainly, my dear Ryan,” he said, splashing some water from a canteen onto his hands and washing quickly. “Hum, we shall need something to carry the succulent fruit. John Barrymore, may we borrow your hat, please?”
Arching both eyebrows, J.B. lowered the self-heat he was eating from and turned slowly, but the man and boy were yards away and moving fast.
“Old coot,” the Armorer growled, smiling.
Reaching the trees, Doc stood guard while Dean knelt on the ground, and, folding up the front of his shirt,
started gathering apples. A plump one rolled away, and he made a successful catch.
“None from there, dear boy,” Doc said, the LeMat held ready. “Too many bruised apples can give a horse cramps.”
“Okay,” he replied, then stood and emptied the fallen fruit from his shirt. Tucking the garment into his pants, Dean grabbed hold of some low branches and scampered up the trunk as if it were a ladder.