Arizona Renegades by Jon Sharpe

would be more of a hindrance than a help.
    When the drummer was finally out of sight, Fargo set to work in earnest. He returned to the gully yet again. He had to. To track down Gwen and the missing men he had to start where they did.
    In the bright light of the new day tracks stood out as clear as crystal. Fargo found where Virgil Tucker had sped into the darkness. And where Gwen Pearson had gone after him. Her prints were smaller, shallower. She had chased him for over forty yards when Tucker veered to the northwest. Hampered by darkness, Gwen didn’t realize he had changed direction. She kept going northward. By the length of her stride it was evident she had been running at her top speed.
    Another forty yards, and Gwen’s stride changed. She’d slowed down. Soon her tracks were meandering in uneven circles. Fargo guessed that she knew she had lost the drummer. Probably her bearings, as well. Finally she had hiked due east, which in a way was a blessing. She was going away from Chipota’s band, not toward it.
    Fargo clucked to the stallion. He had high hopes of catching up to her before another hour went by. That is, if she’d had the presence of mind to stop for the night. Once she was safely at the oaks, he would go after Burt Raidler. By the end of the day they would all be reunited and he could lead them to the way station on the San Simon. Their nightmare would be over.
    What were those?
    A new set of tracks had appeared. They came out from behind a boulder and paralleled Gwen Pearson’s. Drawing rein, Fargo slid down and hunched over to inspect them. At first glance they resembled the prints of a mountain lion. They were approximately the same size as those of an adult cougar’s, although an exceptionally large one. They had the same general shape, the same general placement of the pads. But certain differences, traits only a seasoned tracker would notice, filled Fargo with dread for Gwen’s safety. For one thing, the four pads on the front of each foot were spaced slightly further apart than they would be on a mountain lion. For another, the ridges on the rear pads were not quite as sharply defined. And the tracks were deeper than they should be if a cougar were to blame.
    Fargo jumped onto the Ovaro and broke into a trot. Those were the prints of a big cat, sure enough, but a jaguar’ s . It was shadowing Gwen, as it would deer or antelope, and when it was hungry enough, it would close in.
    Jaguars weren’t common in Arizona, but neither were they all that rare. The Indians claimed that at one time they were as numerous as cougars. In the Bosque Redondo country they were still especially plentiful. Elsewhere, it depended on the availability of game.
    Fargo would rather tangle with a dozen mountain lions than a single jaguar. Jaguars were larger, heavier, meaner, less predictable. And unlike most cougars, they weren’t afraid of humans. This one was a huge male. From the way it was stalking Gwen, Fargo suspected it had preyed on humans before.
    A line of cottonwoods announced the presence of a stream. The farm girl’s tracks led into them. Handprints showed where she had knelt to drink. Then she had sat awhile, resting. Unknown to her, the jaguar had been watching from the undergrowth. When she moved on, so did the big cat. It had sniffed at the spot where she sat, then fell into step in her wake, matching her pace.
    Gwen had gone south. Perhaps she reasoned the stream would bring her near the road, but it curved to the east later on. She had paused and paced, debating whether to follow it or to strike off across country. Nine out of ten people would stick with the water. But country-bred women had more grit than most. Gwendolyn had continued southward. She must have a hunch that sooner or later she would hit the road, and she was right.
    Provided she lived that long. The jaguar had narrowed the distance between them.
    Fargo had no reason to think Gwen even knew it was there. The lengths of her stride grew