The Last Trail Drive by J. Roberts

that Ryan was dead.
    It was two more miles before Clint found out for sure.
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    Dawkins and Sterling had drawn straws to see who would ride ahead and who would retrace their steps. Dawkins ended up going back.
    He and Sterling were not very smart, but they were each good trackers, which is why they had been hired by Santiago Jones. Each of the men he had hired—with Larry Morgan’s money—were good at one particular thing. It was the only way to run a gang—don’t hire anybody smart enough to want to try to take over.
    He picked up the trail soon after he left camp, tracked it until it started to get dark. He didn’t know what to do, then. Jones had not given him specific instructions on what to do when it got dark—camp, or keep tracking. He decided to camp, and since he had no specific instructions on what kind of camp to make—cold or not—he decided to make some coffee.
    When Clint found Chip Ryan he was lying facedown on the ground. An empty canteen and his rifle were next to him. A stick he had probably picked up to use as a crutch was also lying next to him. His gun was still in his holster.
    Clint dismounted, went to Ryan, and turned him over. He was still alive. He got his own canteen from his saddle, poured some water into his hand, and then slapped Ryan’s face until he woke up.
    â€œWha—where—hey—”
    â€œHere, drink some of this.” Clint tipped the canteen up so Ryan could have a few sips.
    â€œThat’s enough,” Clint said. “Which leg hurts?”
    â€œIt’s—It’s my right foot.”
    â€œJust relax.”
    Clint checked the foot, found it swollen in the boot.
    â€œSprained, maybe broken,” Clint said.
    â€œShould we take the boot off?” Ryan asked.
    â€œNo,” Clint said, “not till we get you back to camp.”
    â€œHow are we gonna do that?”
    â€œYou, me, and my horse,” Clint said. “Come on. Let’s get you mounted, and then you can tell me what happened.”
    Clint got Ryan to his feet and they limped together over to Eclipse. With Clint’s aid, he managed to get up in the saddle.
    â€œClint, thanks for comin’ lookin’ for me,” Ryan said.
    â€œHow else was I going to yell at you?” Clint asked.
    â€œYell at me? For what?”
    â€œI told you not to let your horse break his leg, didn’t I?”

THIRTY-TWO
    Clint mounted up behind Ryan and then they started back. Ryan told Clint what had happened.
    â€œI spotted our tail,” he said. “Seven men, one of them was just watchin’ the herd.”
    â€œDid you know him?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhat did he look like?”
    â€œBig man with a head band. Might be a half-breed,” Ryan said.
    â€œWhat’d you do then?”
    â€œWell, I watched them for a while, then decided to come back. I had to circle around again, though, so they wouldn’t see me. That’s when my horse took a bad step, and I heard his leg snap.”
    Clint closed his eyes. He’d heard that sound before. It wasn’t pretty.
    â€œHe step in a chuckhole?”
    â€œNo,” Ryan said. “He just took a bad step.”
    That was the trouble with horses. They weighed about twelve hundred pounds or more and they carried it around on spindly legs. The slightest wrong step could cause a leg to snap. Eclipse weighed even more, and as strong as his legs were, they were still spindly. And now he was carrying two of them.
    They rode for a while in silence, and then Clint reined Eclipse in.
    â€œWhat is it?” Ryan asked.
    â€œCoffee.”
    â€œYou want coffee now?”
    â€œNo,” Clint said. “Sniff the air.”
    Ryan did and he smelled it.
    â€œAh, coffee,” he said, nodding.
    Clint dismounted, handed the reins to Ryan.
    â€œStay here. Don’t come unless I call for you.”
    â€œWhat are you gonna do?”
    â€œFind out who’s