Taggart (1959) by Louis L'amour

a man. She wa s a proud one ... but all woman, too.
    A chaparral cock ran across the slope before him, stopping to flip a tail at hi m and eye him inquisitively. Overhead a buzzard soared against the sky, and in th e distance, over the mountains, billowing black clouds were piling up. The drouth ha d been long ... it was one of the driest years in some time, and a good rain woul d put water along the trails. And it would erase, once and for all, any tracks he migh t have left.
    Even here, only a few yards from the rim of the canyon of the chapel, he could scarcel y see it. The padres had chosen their hiding place very well indeed.
    But Swante Taggart was not safe, and he was not free. He knew better than to rela x and forget his situation. Pete Shoyer was not likely to give up a chase that woul d prove so profitable. Even if for a time he took on something else, it would onl y be to return to the pursuit of Taggart when time allowed.
    Taggart got up and moved across the slope, ignoring the sharp warning of a rattle r a dozen feet off the trail. The snake was coiled in the shade where he had bette r be ... a few minutes of direct sunlight in such heat as this would kill any rattlesnake.
    Twice rabbits started up ... he would set some snares away from the canyon. Onc e he saw deer tracks.
    He caught a slight movement on the hill below him and stood still until he identifie d it as Consuelo. She had a handwoven basket and was collecting seeds or somethin g from desert plants. She moved with easy grace, like an Indian girl, but he coul d see she was wary. Suddenly, he was sure she was aware of his presence. Had she see n him first?
    The thought was not a comfortable one to a man who must survive by never being see n first if he could avoid it, and he settled down to watch her.
    There was an animal grace about her, and when he had looked into her eyes the nigh t before there had been a challenge there. This was quite a woman . . . but she wa s also a danger.
    He lifted his eyes to the far slope of the mountains but saw nothing. Slowly hi s eyes moved around the hills, seeking out every possible way of travel, searchin g for any indication of movement. The clouds were building higher ... it might actuall y rain.
    He got up in one swift, lithe movement and went down the hill toward Consuelo.
    She had turned her back on him but he knew she was aware of his coming. No stone s rattled under his feet. He stepped lightly and easily. Even the Apache moccasins , which were harder of sole that the moccasin of the Plains Indians, allowed a chanc e to feel what was beneath the feet. An Indian never allowed his weight to come dow n on a branch or twig.
    Once, Swante Taggart paused to look around the country again. The buzzard still circled.
    There was a touch of wind in the air, a breath of cooling wind that smelled of rain.
    In the distance lightning flashed, and thunder rumbled in the far-off canyons an d tossed great balls of sound back and forth among the peaks.
    He walked on down the slope of the mountain and paused near Consuelo. "You'd bette r get back," he said. "There's a storm coming."
    "I like it. "
    The wind blew her skirt around her ankles and she lifted her head to the oncomin g storm, letting it blow her black hair back from her neck and face. She wore a loos e blouse that left her neck and smooth brown shoulders bare.
    Lightning flashed in the dark clouds in the west, and the wind touched the violi n of the cedars and hummed softly among the spines of the cholla. Far away on the mountainsid e a gray veil of rain appeared briefly, then vanished as the brief shower died ... a warning of what was to come.
    Taggart scanned the middle distance, searching for mov e ment. The air was startling in its clarity, and the weirdly lit sky mad e the desert and the mountains seem strangely unreal, like some enchanted moonscap e of crater and serrated ridge.
    They stood together in silence, drawn closer by the coming storm, rapt in their