James Axler – Cold Asylum

Doc was close to the one-eyed man, still battling his stubborn horse. “By the Three Kennedys! I would rather make a dozen mat-trans jumps than face this, Ryan.”

“You’ll be fine, Doc. Look, I’ll come in with you. Get alongside and then, if anything happens, you can leap off and hang on with me.”

Doc managed a smile that was more a rictus of trepidation. “The graveyards of history are littered with those poor souls who were persuaded to change horses in midstream, my dear fellow. And you want me to do the same.”

“Just in case. Come on, everyone’s going for it.”

There was shouting and cursing as the hunting party began the fording of the south fork of the Antelope.

One of the sec man nearly lost it as his gelding stumbled, going clean under water. But the man was good, staying with the horse, rising with his arms clasped tight around its dripping neck. He eventually made it to the far shore amid a chorus of ironic cheers.

Guiteau had remained with the outlanders, possibly to make sure they remained safe, possibly to make sure that nobody changed their mind about accepting the invitation from the chatelaine of the ville of Sun Crest.

“Over you go,” the sergeant said, his finger not all that far from the trigger of the Armalite.

Krysty went first, Mildred holding her around the waist, followed by J.B. and Michael. Ryan watched anxiously, but both horses were strong and had no trouble with the crossing.

Now there was only Ryan, with Dean at his back, Doc and Sergeant Guiteau, who shook his head at the worried look on the old man’s face. “I’ll lead your horse and you can swing off and grab on my stirrup. I’ll drag you over safe.”

“Safe, perhaps, my good fellow. But with some concomitant loss of my precious dignity. No, I shall pay the price to live with myself on my own terms. Come on!”

He went so fast that Ryan was taken by surprise, heeling his own horse in a little behind the frothing wake of the spirited Appaloosa.

There was time to shout a warning to his son to hold on tightly, then the cold water was foaming around his thighs, the horse bucking and rolling as it fought desperately for a footing in shifting stones.

Ryan was aware of Guiteau, pushing confidently along a little to his rear, holding the Armalite above his head in his mutilated left hand.

The danger was very real, with the sawtooth rapids only a few yards to their right.

But it was exciting, and Dean gave a sudden piercing rebel yell of delight, slapping their horse on the flank with the flat of his hand.

“Don’t let go!” Ryan shouted, half turning in the saddlein time to see the threatened disaster become a reality.

It might have been that Doc’s horse was already nervous of the surging water, or it might have been the old man’s own fear communicating itself to the animal.

The reason didn’t matter.

Ryan saw the mount rear, as though it scented danger. Doc’s cracked boots slipped from the irons and he went over backward, vanishing under the dark river.

The horse recovered its balance and galloped out onto the opposite bank, where it stood trembling.

But Doc hadn’t surfaced.

Ryan caught a fleeting glimpse of a clenched fist, breaking through the white froth at the brink of the rapids.

Then it disappeared.

Chapter Eighteen

Ryan’s first gut impulse was to go straight in after the old-timer, but his combat reflexes saved him from what could have been a suicidally foolish move.

If he dived off the back of the horse, the Steyr rifle on a sling around his shoulder could snag and drown him. It would also leave Dean perched on the withers of the animal, with no hope of controlling it or reaching the safety of the shore.

Ryan reached behind and grabbed the boy’s arm. “Take the reins!”

He turned to Guiteau. “Watch for him.”

He unslung the rifle as his boot slipped from the left stirrup, his leg swinging over the pommel. He threw the blaster to the sec man, not even waiting to see if he caught it clean.