While traveling to a barn dance at the Breedlove ranch, Miss Abby Potter and several of her soiled doves are taken captive by Indians and transported to Texas to be sold to Comancheros. A small rescue party from Wolf Creek goes after them, and encounters unexpected new allies along the way… but will they reach the captives in time?
WARNING: This volume of Wolf Creek features graphic details which some readers may find disturbing, specifically in the description of the initial Kiowa raid. This is not done for sensationalism, but for historical accuracy and to establish just what the stakes are for the captives. Welcome to Wolf Creek. Here you will find many of your favorite authors, working together as Ford Fargo to weave a complex and textured series of Old West adventures like no one has ever seen. Each author writes from the perspective of his or her own unique character, blended together into a single novel.
Appearing as Ford Fargo in this volume: John Neely Davis, James J. Griffin, Jacquie Rogers, Chuck Tyrell, and Troy D. Smith. About the author: Beneath the mask, Ford Fargo is not one but a posse of America’s leading western authors who have pooled their talents to create a series of rip-snortin’, old fashioned sagebrush sagas. Saddle up. Read ‘em Cowboy! These are the legends of Wolf Creek.
Tom watched the war party approach, their appearance gangly and elongated by the heat waves rising from the desert floor. He shaded his eye – six, maybe seven. He squinted, cursed when he still could not make out the number of riders, removed his glasses, blew on the lens, then wiped them with his bandanna. They were closer and clearer. Definitely six. Three of the horses carrying double. His wife, her red hair shimmering in the right sunlight, sat slumped on the last horse, a rider wearing a stovepipe hat sitting behind her.
Tom went back into the ravine where he’d hidden the horses and hobbled them. He took his shotgun to the top of the arroyo and rested it against a dead mesquite. He went back down, got the hatchet and knife from his saddlebags and cut the lead line from the packhorse’s bridle. With the line coiled around his neck, the rancher scrambled up the steep band and stood, facing the approaching Indians. He took water, mixed it with red dirt, made a paste, and smeared his face with the mixture.
The Indians stopped and started at the man…