Drew struggled wildly but he could not break the grip which held him down. He was looking up into the face of Greyfeather, and none of his writhing made any impression on the Pima’s hold. There was a sprinkle of shots; then a whirl of the wind brought sand up over them, blinding eyes, filling mouth and nose. Even the Indian flinched from that and Drew managed to tear loose. He rolled down the grade, bringing up against a small tree with a jolt which drove most of the air from his laboring lungs.
He pulled his arm up across his face, trying to shield his eyes from the blast which thickened steadily, gasping for air to breathe. And the wind voiced a howl which arose as alarmingly as the stallions’ screaming.
Stallions! Drew clawed his way up to his knees. But there was no seeing through that murk to where Shiloh had been. Then he was on his feet, stumbling along ... the big gray must be hidden somewhere....
"Drew!" A figure blundered into him from behind, almost sending him to the ground again. "Get down, you fool!" Hands clutched at his body, trying to pull him earthward.
"Let me go! Shiloh—"
"Get down!" Anse’s whole weight struck him, and he fell, the Texan sprawling with him. It was only then that he heard the spatter of rifle fire and understood that they were in the middle of an exchange of lead slugs.
"Keep down!" Anse, his voice ragged with anger, snapped the command in Drew’s ear. "What in thunder you tryin’ to do? You gone completely loco, amigo? Walkin’ right out to git yourself shot like them bullets was nothin’ but pecans or somethin’ like!"
For the first time Drew realized what he had done—blown Rennie’s carefully planned trap sky-high. His shot at the Pinto must have been warning enough for the fugitives. But why were they trying to make a fight of it now, when to cut and run would have been the smartest move? Unless, having seen only one man, they believed he was alone. He tried to rub the dust from his eyes and think coherently. But all that was in the forefront of his mind was that last sight of Shiloh following the Pinto to battle.
"All right." Drew shifted in Anse’s hold. "It’s all right."
Not that it was, but at least that was the best way he could express his return to reason. And the Texan appeared to understand, for his grip loosened.
The dust which had blown up an opaque curtain dropped as quickly. They lay together on the far side of the ridge, but the space below was empty. They saw no men, no battling horses—nothing.
"They’ve hightailed it," someone called from the crest of the ridge.
"I tell you ... I got one of ’em.... He’s over between those two bushes. He’d pulled up to take up th’ fella runnin’ an’ went out of th’ saddle. Other man got his hoss an’ lit out."
Drew stood up.
"Where you goin’ now?" Anse demanded.
"Where d’ you think?" the Kentuckian asked dully. "After Shiloh."
He went on foot, down the slope, across the open where the gray had unseated his rider and turned to take up the Pinto’s challenge. Since the horses were no longer in sight, there was only one way they could have gone—to the east.
Drew was in the open when another of those wild sand and dust flurries caught him. Buffeted here and there, staggering, his arm up over his face, he was driven by its force until he brought up against a rock wall. With that as a guide he kept on stubbornly, because once more he had heard the scream of the Pinto. In triumph? Drew shivered under a thrust of fear which left him sick. He was sure that that murderous red-and-white devil had finished off Shiloh.
Along the wall ... keep going.... The dust was thinning again. Drew’s hand was on the Colt Topham had supplied. The Spencer lay back on the ridge. But if any kind of fortune favored him now, he was going to shoot the Pinto—if it was the last thing he ever did.
There was a clear space ahead once more. The sullen gray sky gave only dulled light, but enough to see by.
Drew had heard many stories of the fury of the stallion battle, and he had seen fearsome scars ridging the hides of two of the Range studs. But actually witnessing such a battle shook him. Teeth ... hoofs ... blood on Shiloh’s shoulders and flanks ... a strip of flesh dangling.... But Drew saw that the Pinto was marked, too.
The wild horse was trying for a final throat grip, and
Shiloh was on the defensive, running, wheeling to kick, once getting home on the Pinto’s ribs so that the spotted horse squealed with pain. Shiloh had a torn ear and a gash open on his neck. The two battlers twisted and turned in a mad fury of movement.
Drew edged on, Colt ready. But to fire now was impossible.
The Pinto’s hoofs crashed against the saddle and Shiloh gave ground. With a scream of triumph the wild one’s head snaked out, teeth ready to set on the larger horse’s throat. Hopelessly, Drew shot—it was all he could do.
The white-and-red head tossed. Shiloh had wrenched back. The Pinto drove against the gray and crashed down. It lay kicking as the larger horse hit out with forefeet, bringing them heavily down on the Pinto. The Pinto let out a cry of rage and pain that seemed to startle even Shiloh. The gray backed away from his writhing enemy and stood shivering, his head outstretched, nostrils distended. Drew fired for the second time and the helpless kicking was stilled.
Shiloh moved, limping. Blood matted with dust stained his coat, making him almost as red and white as the Range stud. Drew holstered the Colt and went to his horse, crooning softly as he caught one of the chewed and broken reins.
He was trying to examine what seemed to him terrible wounds, when Shiloh started neighing. The Kentuckian looked back. Anse and Rennie, with Teodoro and Chino bringing up the rear, were coming. The young mustanger went to look down at the Pinto.
"He is dead." That was an observation rather than a question. Teodoro knelt in the dust, drew his knife and cut loose strands of the long mane hair.
"I shot him." Drew was more intent on Shiloh’s wounds. "He was killin’ Shiloh."
He pushed back the thought that although his horse was still on its feet, the Pinto might have killed him, after all. Except for horses ripped by shellfire in battle, Drew had never seen any wounds such as these. He was deadly afraid that those two bullets had not really saved the stud.
"Let’s have a look, Chino, bring my saddlebags!" Hunt Rennie was beside Drew. "Can you lead him back to the water hole?" he asked. "See if he’ll walk."
Somehow they did it—Drew and Anse, Rennie and Teodoro. They coaxed, led, supported Shiloh when they could, and brought him to the water hole. And then they worked to stop the weakening flow of blood. Drew kept the young horse quiet while Rennie stitched up the worst of the tears.
"He’ll do." Rennie washed his hands. "Can’t move him for some time, though. He must have given a good account of himself meeting that murderer for the first time. Lucky ..."
"Suh—" Drew found it difficult to face Rennie. As his anxiety over the horse’s condition had faded, he had had time to think of something beyond his own affairs. "I want to say thanks." He got that out in a rush before he added the admission he must make: "I spoiled your plan to take Kitchell."
Rennie’s dark eyes held his as they had always been able to do. Then Drew had the odd sensation that the two of them were all alone in a place not bound by space or time.
"Don’t say you’re sorry. If you did, I wouldn’t believe you. You made the move you had to. If it had been Oro out there—I would have done the same."
Drew responded to that impulsively. "You’re generous, suh."
His father’s black brows drew together in a slight frown. "Generous? No, that’s the truth. As for losing Kitchell—we may not have. Those who got away have Greyfeather, Nye, and others on their trail. And I do not think they will find such hunters easy to fool. Also, we have a prisoner...."
Don Cazar’s acceptance of their failure was so placid that Drew was led to make a wild guess.
"Not Kitchell himself!"
Rennie smiled. "No, we weren’t that lucky—you must have had the lion’s share of that commodity here today. We have a Mexican, name unknown. He was shot down while trying to pick up the rider Shiloh got rid of—who just might have been Kitchell. But this prisoner may be moved to tell us about the three who got away. If these wind storms keep up, they could powder over the trail and the boys will need help."
The Mexican, his shoulder bandaged, was propped up against the saddle they had taken from Shiloh. He stared at them sullenly, his gaze finally centering on Don Cazar when they took places opposite him.
"Some of that coffee for him, Chino," Rennie called. Herrera brought over a tin cup from the fire now blazing. As the Mexican took it awkwardly with his left hand, still watching Rennie glassily over the brim, the latter used fluent Spanish, only a word or two of which Drew understood.
The man grunted and then was assailed by Chino in a hotter flow of his native tongue, until Rennie silenced the vaquero’s outburst with a wave of hand and spoke again.
Drew sniffed the aroma of the bacon Donally was frying, his stomach protesting plaintively.
"What are they sayin’?" he whispered to Anse.
"Old Man pointed out nice an’ plain what th’ Mex’s in for, lessen he speaks up. This hombre, Rennie thinks maybe he don’t run regular with Kitchell—more’n likely he came up from th’ south, could be to guide th’ gang back there some place. Iffen th’ Mex can prove that, th’ Old Man promises to talk for him with th’ law. So far he ain’t said nothin’ much in answer."
They ate. The prisoner’s round face expressed surprise when Rennie had him provided with an equal share. He sucked his greasy fingers avidly after he had wolfed down his portion. A moment later he asked a question of his own. Rennie replied, nodding vigorously, as if to make assent more emphatic. Anse translated.
"Th’ Mex wanted to know if th’ Old Man meant what he said ’bout talkin’ up to th’ law. If so, he may loosen his jaw some. I’d say, if he’s a guide from down there, he wouldn’t be too set on coverin’ for Kitchell—not when that might mean gettin’ his own neck stretched. Yeah ... now he’s beginnin’ to run right over at th’ lip."
The prisoner did loose a flood of words, Rennie and Chino listening intently, Donally coming to stand behind the others. Drew guessed by his changing expressions that the Anglo rider was as much at home in Spanish as Anse. The Kentuckian regretted his own ignorance; the few words he had picked up along the trail from Texas certainly were no help now.
The Mexican wiped his good hand up and down the front of his worn jacket, and then smoothed a patch of soil. On it he drew lines and explained each of them, much as Hilario Trinfan had done for the horse hunters days earlier.
"What’s he sayin’ now?" Drew demanded of Anse.
"That it’s true he was sent to guide Kitchell south. That train of hosses an’ loot was th’ gang’s prime pickin’s. Some of it was to grease their way in with this hombre’s patrón—don’t know who he is—some Mex gineral or such. Kitchell, he rode behind because he had waited for a gringo to meet him. They was makin’ up time when they heard th’ fight goin’ on in th’ pass. Kitchell headed back here to fill canteens. Th’ Mex was goin’ to guide ’em south by another trail—one he knows. He’s layin’ it out for th’ Old Man now. It’s a pretty rough one; they’d have to take it slow. Could be we could catch up before Kitchell makes it—’specially since he don’t have this Mex leadin’ him now."
When it was necessary Rennie could move fast. He was on his feet giving orders almost before Anse had finished the translation. Their party was to be split in two. Drew and Anse were to stay with the wounded Mexican and Shiloh, and prepare to defend the water hole if the outlaws made a second attempt to come in. The rest of them would ride for an already designated rendezvous point where they would meet the party sent to trace the fugitives.
"Why do I stay, suh?" Anse protested when Don Cazar had finished.
"You can tend that arm better on the ground than in the saddle."
"Ain’t no hurt there any more." Anse hurriedly pulled it from the sling. "Anyways, that ain’t m’ shootin’ hand, neither!" But one look at Hunt Rennie’s face reduced him to muttering.
Drew watched their preparations quietly. Then he gathered up two canteens and filled them at the water hole, went back to loop their carry straps over Hunt Rennie’s saddle horn. Anse had a bad arm, so it was right that he should not go chasing hell-for-leather over rough country. But Drew Rennie—he was left because he was useless in another way. He was a man who could not be depended upon, who had sprung their trap because he cared more for a horse than he did for the success of Rennie’s mission.
And in a way Hunt Rennie was perfectly just in that judgment. If it were all to do over again, Drew knew he would make exactly the same choice. Shiloh was his—about the only good thing he had ever possessed, or might ever have in the future. If, in order to keep Shiloh, he had to give up what he knew now was a very vague dream—he would surrender the dream every time.
Although he knew that was the truth, the Kentuckian was desperately unhappy as he made a lengthy business of adjusting the canteens. About the worst words one could ever speak, or think, were "too late." This was all too late—twenty years too late. They might have had something good together, he and Hunt Rennie. Now it was too late.
As Drew heard the crunch of boots on gravel close behind him, he swung around. "Full canteens," he blurted out. And then, ashamed of his own confusion, he forced himself to look straight at his father. "Good luck, suh."
"We’ll need it. I’m leaving you José—he’ll do some prowling. Wouldn’t do for you to be jumped by Apaches. If we don’t come back in three or four days and Shiloh’s able to travel, you take the Mexican and head back to the Stronghold—understand? I mean that."
"Yes, suh." Drew had lost his right to protest, lost it the instant he had betrayed their ambush. Now he turned quickly and hurried to where Shiloh stood. The last thing he wanted to see was Hunt Rennie ride away.
Anse kicked earth over the fire when they were gone. "No use showin’ smoke," he remarked, and Drew readily agreed. The horses, with the exception of Shiloh, were hobbled and allowed the restricted freedom of the pocket-sized meadow running back from the water hole. Anse and Drew divided the night into two-hour watches.
"Don’t see as how they’d be fool enough to try chewin’ back on their trail again, though," Anse commented.
"They need water. Accordin’ to what this guide of theirs says, they’ll need it doubly bad before they finish that road of his. They might just be crazy enough to try here—men have gotten away with tricks such as that before."
"Drew." Anse was only a shadow among shadows, a voice out of the dark now. "You made up your mind about what you’re goin’ to do when this is all over?"
"Pull out—California maybe. I don’t know."
"Sure you don’t want to stay?"
"No!" Drew put explosive emphasis into his reply.
"A man can be too stubborn an’ stiff-necked for his own good—"
"A man has to do what he has to," Drew snapped. "I’m turnin’ in. Give me th’ nudge when it’s time."
He rolled in a blanket, settled himself with his Colt close to hand, and lay gazing up into the cloudy sky. What was the matter with him, anyway? All he had to do was stick to his decision. And that was the best one for him. Resolutely he closed his eyes and tried to will his mind a blank, himself into slumber.
"Drew—!"
Before his eyes were fairly open his hand was reaching for the Colt, only to meet a numbing blow on the wrist. The Kentuckian rolled in instinctive reaction and a second, body-jarring stroke caught him in the ribs. He was left gasping, still not fully aware of what had happened.
"All right, you—on your feet!" A hand hooked in the collar of his coat to jerk him up. Somehow Drew did find his feet and stood bent over, his hands to his bruised side, breathing in small painful gasps. A rib had either been broken in that assault, or it was cracked.
There were two—three—four figures moving in the moonlight. Then the one fronting him turned and he saw the face clearly. Shannon!
"Only three of ’em—Benito an’ these two," one of the others reported.
"How’s Benito?" There was authority in that inquiry, but it came from the one man who kept well back in the shadows.
"Got him a holed shoulder."
"Able to ride?"
"Dunno, suh."
"He’d better be. We need him to find Graverro. These two we don’t need."
"That’s where you’re wrong, Colonel. This here’s about th’ best cover we could git us now." Shannon laughed. "Mister Drew Rennie, come outta Kentucky to find his pa—touchin’ story, ain’t it? Real touchin’—like somethin’ outta a book. Well, does his pa find us, his sonny boy’d be real handy, now wouldn’t he?"
"You have a point, Shannon. We’ll take him."
"An’ th’ other one, Colonel, suh?"
Kitchell—if Kitchell that shadow was—came out into the moonlight. He wore the gray shell jacket of a Confederate cavalryman, and the light glinted on the cords of a field officer’s hat.
"Who are you, boy?" He faced to the left and Drew looked in the same direction.
Anse stood there, the barrel of a Colt pushed against him just above the belt line.
"Anson Kirby."
Shannon laughed again. "’Nother big man—says he rode with General Forrest!"
"That true, Kirby, you were one of General Forrest’s command?"
