incredulity in Chesney's voice made Neill flush with anger and shame.
"Don't be a damn' fool, Bill. He was new to the country, so he's walked soft and listened.
Well, he's eaten the dust and tasted the salt, and from here on he'll make his own tracks."
When they bedded down for the night, they were just eleven miles from Neerland and his two men; and the two fires formed the base corners of a triangle at the point of which were Kris and Matt Keylock .
The desert wind that stirred the smoke of their two fires moved north and, channeled by the canyons, stirred the smoke of the Keylock fire also. And only a little farther north, that smoke was smelled by a golden stallion that tossed his head irritably, staring uneasily into the wind.
MATT KEYLOCK WOKE from a heavy sleep with the lemon light of day showing faint across the eastern sky. The snort of a horse had awakened him and his eyes went, as always, toward his buckskin, whose ways he knew well. The animal had his head up, nostrils distended, and was staring toward the mouth of the cove.
"Quiet, boy! Quiet now!" Rifle in hand, Matt moved to the trees at the edge of the bench.
Moments passed, and he saw nothing, heard no sound.
His boots were back at camp, and his shirt. He hesitated, wanting to go back and get dressed. A man caught without boots in this country was in trouble.
He was about to turn away when some suggestion of movement arrested his attention. It was no more than a shift in a shadow-an outline that had not seemed to be there before ... or was he imagining things?
Suddenly Kris was beside him, carrying his boots, his shirt and gun belt. "Watch that," he said, indicating the place, and he handed her the rifle.
Then he sat down swiftly and tugged on his boots. When he stood up she gave back his rifle.
"Nothing," she said.
But there had been something down there. He stared, looked away, then looked past the spot to put it in the outer limits of his gaze. Yes, there was something or somebody down there. He put down his rifle and calmly got into his shirt.
All right... so they were here. He had done what he could to avoid trouble, so if they came to him now they had to put their bullets on the line. From here on out, it was pay to play.
Then suddenly a man appeared in sight, and he was both young and a complete stranger.
He wore a battered hat, a cowhide vest, and a pair of tied-down guns. He carried a Henry rifle in his hands, and he seemed to be looking for something-some landmark, some object.
They stood silent, watching as the man came nearer to where they stood. He looked at the mesa opposite, then turned and looked up, straight toward them. They were back under the trees, fronted by brush, and there was scarcely a chance that they could be seen-and in fact the man did not see them.
"He isn't hunting tracks," Matt whispered, "so whatever he's looking for, it isn't us."
"What else would he be hunting?"
The Lost Wagons . . .
But surely not way up here! The Lost Wagons were south of here a good many miles . . . ten or fifteen, anyway. Or were they? Something in the stranger's manner implied knowledge, for he was not looking about at random. He was searching for some definite thing, or some particular place.
If he was looking for the Lost Wagons he should have been searching for wheels, or for some remnant of the wagons themselves, for the bolts or the hubs of the wheels, which were of hardwood and virtually indestructible in this desert country. But it seemed obvious that he was looking for some landmark, some sign on the mountains themselves.
And then Matt heard another sound, the faintest whisper of rough material against rock. It came from behind him. He turned swiftly, dropping to one knee, Winchester lifted for firing.
A man stood just inside the rim of brush, hands lifted. It was Gay Cooley.
Matt remained where he was, the rifle held steady. Gay came toward them, keeping his hands high. Behind him walked his horse, followed by a pack
"Don't be a damn' fool, Bill. He was new to the country, so he's walked soft and listened.
Well, he's eaten the dust and tasted the salt, and from here on he'll make his own tracks."
When they bedded down for the night, they were just eleven miles from Neerland and his two men; and the two fires formed the base corners of a triangle at the point of which were Kris and Matt Keylock .
The desert wind that stirred the smoke of their two fires moved north and, channeled by the canyons, stirred the smoke of the Keylock fire also. And only a little farther north, that smoke was smelled by a golden stallion that tossed his head irritably, staring uneasily into the wind.
MATT KEYLOCK WOKE from a heavy sleep with the lemon light of day showing faint across the eastern sky. The snort of a horse had awakened him and his eyes went, as always, toward his buckskin, whose ways he knew well. The animal had his head up, nostrils distended, and was staring toward the mouth of the cove.
"Quiet, boy! Quiet now!" Rifle in hand, Matt moved to the trees at the edge of the bench.
Moments passed, and he saw nothing, heard no sound.
His boots were back at camp, and his shirt. He hesitated, wanting to go back and get dressed. A man caught without boots in this country was in trouble.
He was about to turn away when some suggestion of movement arrested his attention. It was no more than a shift in a shadow-an outline that had not seemed to be there before ... or was he imagining things?
Suddenly Kris was beside him, carrying his boots, his shirt and gun belt. "Watch that," he said, indicating the place, and he handed her the rifle.
Then he sat down swiftly and tugged on his boots. When he stood up she gave back his rifle.
"Nothing," she said.
But there had been something down there. He stared, looked away, then looked past the spot to put it in the outer limits of his gaze. Yes, there was something or somebody down there. He put down his rifle and calmly got into his shirt.
All right... so they were here. He had done what he could to avoid trouble, so if they came to him now they had to put their bullets on the line. From here on out, it was pay to play.
Then suddenly a man appeared in sight, and he was both young and a complete stranger.
He wore a battered hat, a cowhide vest, and a pair of tied-down guns. He carried a Henry rifle in his hands, and he seemed to be looking for something-some landmark, some object.
They stood silent, watching as the man came nearer to where they stood. He looked at the mesa opposite, then turned and looked up, straight toward them. They were back under the trees, fronted by brush, and there was scarcely a chance that they could be seen-and in fact the man did not see them.
"He isn't hunting tracks," Matt whispered, "so whatever he's looking for, it isn't us."
"What else would he be hunting?"
The Lost Wagons . . .
But surely not way up here! The Lost Wagons were south of here a good many miles . . . ten or fifteen, anyway. Or were they? Something in the stranger's manner implied knowledge, for he was not looking about at random. He was searching for some definite thing, or some particular place.
If he was looking for the Lost Wagons he should have been searching for wheels, or for some remnant of the wagons themselves, for the bolts or the hubs of the wheels, which were of hardwood and virtually indestructible in this desert country. But it seemed obvious that he was looking for some landmark, some sign on the mountains themselves.
And then Matt heard another sound, the faintest whisper of rough material against rock. It came from behind him. He turned swiftly, dropping to one knee, Winchester lifted for firing.
A man stood just inside the rim of brush, hands lifted. It was Gay Cooley.
Matt remained where he was, the rifle held steady. Gay came toward them, keeping his hands high. Behind him walked his horse, followed by a pack
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