fast as they could.
But The Kid couldn’t be absolutely certain of that, so the smart thing to do would be to wait until morning and pick up their trail once it was light. A war party of a hundred men couldn’t travel without leaving behind plenty of signs, even in the arid wasteland.
When he thought about Jessica Ritter and the other three women, he wanted to keep going, but he forced himself to stop and unsaddle the dun.
If he was going to have any chance of rescuing the captives, he had to keep his emotions at bay. He had to be as coldly calculating as a machine. It was the only way to overcome the overwhelming odds he faced.
The Kid picketed the horse and spread his bedroll again for the second time that night. He wrapped up in his blankets against the nighttime chill and tried to sleep.
But even though his eyes were closed, he kept seeing horrific images of fire and blood and death. He hadn’t witnessed the slaughter at the wagon camp, but in his mind it was like he had been there, watching and hearing everything.
Every terrible thing.
Despite that, weariness eventually claimed him, but his sleep was restless and haunted by nightmares. He was glad when he woke up the next morning in the cold gray light of dawn.
The Kid stood up and stretched to ease muscles that ached from tossing and turning so much on the hard ground. He gathered broken branches from some nearby scrub brush and built a small fire.
He soon had coffee boiling and shaved slices off a chunk of salt pork into his frying pan. There were plenty of biscuits left in the bag of provisions Horace Dunlap had gathered for him the night before. As he hunkered on his heels next to the fire and ate, The Kid thought about the people who had donated that food for him.
Most of them—maybe all of them—were dead. The meal tasted like ashes in his mouth, but he forced himself to eat anyway.
By the time the sky was light enough for him to start searching for the war party’s tracks, he had his gear packed away and the dun saddled. The Apaches must have come through this area, he thought as he mounted and began to ride along the edge of the hills.
That hunch proved right. He had gone less than a quarter mile when he came to a broad swath of hoofprints and mocassin tracks that led off to the south. Some of the Apaches were on foot, but that wasn’t surprising. An Apache warrior moving at a steady trot was capable of running a horse into the ground, Frank had told him.
The Kid turned to follow the tracks. Figuring out how many men were in the war party was impossible. The prints were too jumbled up.
The only thing he could be sure of was that there were a lot of them.
From the looks of it, the Apaches weren’t trying to cover their trail. They knew they had avoided the cavalry patrol, which had moved on west. And they wouldn’t be expecting any pursuit from the devastated wagon camp. As far as they knew, they hadn’t left anyone alive behind them.
After a few days, when the three Apaches who had gone after The Kid failed to return, the rest might start to wonder what had happened to them. They wouldn’t be concerned, though. The Kid was only one man.
What could one man do to hurt them?
The night’s chill disappeared rapidly as the sun climbed into the sky. As the heat grew, The Kid wondered how far it was to the next source of water. He had filled both canteens in the creek in Raincrow Valley before he rode away, but in the semidesert, that water wouldn’t last long. The dun would require quite a bit of it.
The Apaches had to know this territory, he reminded himself. They would need water, too, and would know where to find it. As long as he was following them, he would come to it sooner or later.
A couple of hours after sunup, he spotted dust rising to the west. Unless the war party had made a sharp turn for some unfathomable reason, that was the wrong direction for them. The Kid reined in and rested his hands on the saddle horn as he studied
But The Kid couldn’t be absolutely certain of that, so the smart thing to do would be to wait until morning and pick up their trail once it was light. A war party of a hundred men couldn’t travel without leaving behind plenty of signs, even in the arid wasteland.
When he thought about Jessica Ritter and the other three women, he wanted to keep going, but he forced himself to stop and unsaddle the dun.
If he was going to have any chance of rescuing the captives, he had to keep his emotions at bay. He had to be as coldly calculating as a machine. It was the only way to overcome the overwhelming odds he faced.
The Kid picketed the horse and spread his bedroll again for the second time that night. He wrapped up in his blankets against the nighttime chill and tried to sleep.
But even though his eyes were closed, he kept seeing horrific images of fire and blood and death. He hadn’t witnessed the slaughter at the wagon camp, but in his mind it was like he had been there, watching and hearing everything.
Every terrible thing.
Despite that, weariness eventually claimed him, but his sleep was restless and haunted by nightmares. He was glad when he woke up the next morning in the cold gray light of dawn.
The Kid stood up and stretched to ease muscles that ached from tossing and turning so much on the hard ground. He gathered broken branches from some nearby scrub brush and built a small fire.
He soon had coffee boiling and shaved slices off a chunk of salt pork into his frying pan. There were plenty of biscuits left in the bag of provisions Horace Dunlap had gathered for him the night before. As he hunkered on his heels next to the fire and ate, The Kid thought about the people who had donated that food for him.
Most of them—maybe all of them—were dead. The meal tasted like ashes in his mouth, but he forced himself to eat anyway.
By the time the sky was light enough for him to start searching for the war party’s tracks, he had his gear packed away and the dun saddled. The Apaches must have come through this area, he thought as he mounted and began to ride along the edge of the hills.
That hunch proved right. He had gone less than a quarter mile when he came to a broad swath of hoofprints and mocassin tracks that led off to the south. Some of the Apaches were on foot, but that wasn’t surprising. An Apache warrior moving at a steady trot was capable of running a horse into the ground, Frank had told him.
The Kid turned to follow the tracks. Figuring out how many men were in the war party was impossible. The prints were too jumbled up.
The only thing he could be sure of was that there were a lot of them.
From the looks of it, the Apaches weren’t trying to cover their trail. They knew they had avoided the cavalry patrol, which had moved on west. And they wouldn’t be expecting any pursuit from the devastated wagon camp. As far as they knew, they hadn’t left anyone alive behind them.
After a few days, when the three Apaches who had gone after The Kid failed to return, the rest might start to wonder what had happened to them. They wouldn’t be concerned, though. The Kid was only one man.
What could one man do to hurt them?
The night’s chill disappeared rapidly as the sun climbed into the sky. As the heat grew, The Kid wondered how far it was to the next source of water. He had filled both canteens in the creek in Raincrow Valley before he rode away, but in the semidesert, that water wouldn’t last long. The dun would require quite a bit of it.
The Apaches had to know this territory, he reminded himself. They would need water, too, and would know where to find it. As long as he was following them, he would come to it sooner or later.
A couple of hours after sunup, he spotted dust rising to the west. Unless the war party had made a sharp turn for some unfathomable reason, that was the wrong direction for them. The Kid reined in and rested his hands on the saddle horn as he studied
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