was very hot, and weariness suddenly flooded over him. Just as the long, hot ride had taken its toll from the roan, it was now getting to him. It had been a long time since he had been this tired.
Squinting his eyes under the pulled-down hatbrim, he studied the terrain with care.
Nothing must happen to him, for he carried nearly all the food and ammunition for the party.
Behind him was the Playas Valley, before him, beyond the mountains, was the Animas Valley. He started Mohammet, walking the stallion out of the copse where they had assembled for the climb, and he turned the Arab westward.
The sun burned on his back, and his eyelids were heavy. His eyes ached and the lids burned with staring over the wide, hot spaces. There was no sound but the hooffalls of his horses, the creak of the saddle. He touched his tongue to his dry lips and mopped his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt.
He topped out on the rise, and Wolf Canyon lay before him. He came down off the ridge and in the brief shadow of the boulders, he studied the terrain again. It was hard to focus his eyes, but he took his time, measuring the sunlit vastness before him, the great shoulders of raw, red rock, the splashes of green, the great, broken, shattered land.
A lizard darted out on a rock near him, and stopped, its side panting with the heat.
Overhead a buzzard circled, but the blue sky of morning was gone, and in its place was a sky of heat-misted brass from which the sun blazed. He rubbed the stubble on his jaws, and started the Arab forward, feeling his way down the slope, watching for the trail he knew was there.
*** Upon a shoulder of Gillespie Mountain, Tats-das Ya-Go turned his cold eyes toward the southwest... movement! Something stirred among the sunlit hills.
Squatted in the shadow of a rock, the Quick-Killer's eyes held upon the far distant hill. The movement had been there, and then it was gone ... it had been no sheep, and nothing else would be large enough.
Again! He squinted his eyes against the glare. A man. A rider with two horses. Swiftly, he turned and went down off the mountain to his horse.
Let Chato go his way ... let Loco and the others go ... he would find his own kills, and leave them where he found them.
Far and away to the south and east, along the foot of the Big Hatchet Mountains, Rio Hockett led the stolen wagon and its cargo. Bob Marker rode beside him.
Flanking the wagon were two riders, and two men rode the seat of the wagon. Two more brought up the rear, riding wide of the wagon to be free of its dust. Two more rode inside, armed and ready. Bosky Fulton brought up the rear, nor was it by accident that he chose the position.
They had seen no Apaches, nor any Indian sign at all. Rio Hockett was walking his horse and well out in the lead with Marker when he smelled dust. Drawing up sharply, he turned in his saddle. No wind was blowing.
Uneasily, he looked around him. Nothing stirred. The smell of dust was gone. He looked across toward the Animas Mountains, but saw nothing. Nearby were several drowned peaks, almost buried in the sand that would eventually cover them.
Hockett mopped his brow and looked around him again. Bob Marker, a mean-looking Missourian, shot him a sharp glance. "What's the matter?"
"I don't like the feel of things. I thought I smelled dust."
"Our own, prob'ly. Let's go. There's water south of them peaks, and Mexico not far beyond it."
"Bosky wants us to go east toward Juarez... not a bad idea. Say! I know a little Mex gal in Juarez, who-"
And then he saw the tracks.
Hockett turned swiftly, slapping spurs to his horse, and started for the wagon. He saw it swing broadside, saw a man fall from the wagon seat into the sand, and then he heard the report of a gun ... seconds later there were other shots.
He glanced around for Marker and saw his horse running riderless, stirrups flapping.
He felt his own horse go under him and kicked his feet free of the stirrups, dropping like an acrobat even
Squinting his eyes under the pulled-down hatbrim, he studied the terrain with care.
Nothing must happen to him, for he carried nearly all the food and ammunition for the party.
Behind him was the Playas Valley, before him, beyond the mountains, was the Animas Valley. He started Mohammet, walking the stallion out of the copse where they had assembled for the climb, and he turned the Arab westward.
The sun burned on his back, and his eyelids were heavy. His eyes ached and the lids burned with staring over the wide, hot spaces. There was no sound but the hooffalls of his horses, the creak of the saddle. He touched his tongue to his dry lips and mopped his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt.
He topped out on the rise, and Wolf Canyon lay before him. He came down off the ridge and in the brief shadow of the boulders, he studied the terrain again. It was hard to focus his eyes, but he took his time, measuring the sunlit vastness before him, the great shoulders of raw, red rock, the splashes of green, the great, broken, shattered land.
A lizard darted out on a rock near him, and stopped, its side panting with the heat.
Overhead a buzzard circled, but the blue sky of morning was gone, and in its place was a sky of heat-misted brass from which the sun blazed. He rubbed the stubble on his jaws, and started the Arab forward, feeling his way down the slope, watching for the trail he knew was there.
*** Upon a shoulder of Gillespie Mountain, Tats-das Ya-Go turned his cold eyes toward the southwest... movement! Something stirred among the sunlit hills.
Squatted in the shadow of a rock, the Quick-Killer's eyes held upon the far distant hill. The movement had been there, and then it was gone ... it had been no sheep, and nothing else would be large enough.
Again! He squinted his eyes against the glare. A man. A rider with two horses. Swiftly, he turned and went down off the mountain to his horse.
Let Chato go his way ... let Loco and the others go ... he would find his own kills, and leave them where he found them.
Far and away to the south and east, along the foot of the Big Hatchet Mountains, Rio Hockett led the stolen wagon and its cargo. Bob Marker rode beside him.
Flanking the wagon were two riders, and two men rode the seat of the wagon. Two more brought up the rear, riding wide of the wagon to be free of its dust. Two more rode inside, armed and ready. Bosky Fulton brought up the rear, nor was it by accident that he chose the position.
They had seen no Apaches, nor any Indian sign at all. Rio Hockett was walking his horse and well out in the lead with Marker when he smelled dust. Drawing up sharply, he turned in his saddle. No wind was blowing.
Uneasily, he looked around him. Nothing stirred. The smell of dust was gone. He looked across toward the Animas Mountains, but saw nothing. Nearby were several drowned peaks, almost buried in the sand that would eventually cover them.
Hockett mopped his brow and looked around him again. Bob Marker, a mean-looking Missourian, shot him a sharp glance. "What's the matter?"
"I don't like the feel of things. I thought I smelled dust."
"Our own, prob'ly. Let's go. There's water south of them peaks, and Mexico not far beyond it."
"Bosky wants us to go east toward Juarez... not a bad idea. Say! I know a little Mex gal in Juarez, who-"
And then he saw the tracks.
Hockett turned swiftly, slapping spurs to his horse, and started for the wagon. He saw it swing broadside, saw a man fall from the wagon seat into the sand, and then he heard the report of a gun ... seconds later there were other shots.
He glanced around for Marker and saw his horse running riderless, stirrups flapping.
He felt his own horse go under him and kicked his feet free of the stirrups, dropping like an acrobat even
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