chill faded. In an hour it was hot, with discarded jackets slung back of their cantles, sweat darkening the salt-rimed stains beneath armpits, lathering like soap on the flanks of the horses. Grete’s weren’t the only eyes watching the rimrocks.
The morning wore on. They nooned by a stream that was thick with willow and hackberry, wolfing down the cold food passed around by Patch, more than one of them grousing the lack of hot coffee. It was on Grete’s orders that no fire was kindled. He closed his eyes for a moment to ease the burn and, drugged by exhaustion, slept for two hours.
He awoke to find Sary’s hand on his shoulder, stared at her stupidly, then sighted his shadow. He sprang up with a curse. Everyone else in camp was asleep. “God damn it,” he snarled, “we got no time for foolishness —”
“You had to have rest.”
“We could have woke up in hell!”
“I stayed awake. I’ve had more sleep than the rest of you.” She saw the narrow-eyed way he was scowling into the west; he’d discovered the dust. “Wild horses,” she said, and lifted a hand toward the stud. “Danny knows. We saw them crossing that saddle —”
The stallion’s sudden trumpeting brought Idaho, bleary-eyed, out of the hackberries. The man hitched his gun up. The quick look he threw around cut the dust and swirled back. She saw the tightening about his jaw and mouth. Farraday nodded. “Get those fools on their feet.”
“It’s only horses,” Sary said. “The stud —”
“Horses sure,” Idaho grumbled.
“And something pushing them,” Farraday said. His tone was dry as snapping sticks. The girl stared uneasily from one to the other. “I saw them crossing that saddle —”
“You can’t see them now. Wild stock don’t travel like that without they’re pushed. Those horses are running.”
Idaho’s shout brought the men off the ground. “Put those mares in the creek —”
“Too late for that. They know we’re here.” Grete frowned at the canyon walls. “We can’t climb out this side of that saddle; if we get that far there won’t be no point to it. Bowie’s not over five miles right now. Bunch the stock. We’ll make a run for it.”
ELEVEN
Here where they’d nooned, the walls of the canyon, perhaps a hundred yards apart, ran straight for an approximate quarter of a mile. At this point, dropping, they swung north in a series of twisting convolutions, then went angling south in a kind of battered crescent as they converged on the saddle, or low notch, the girl had mentioned. There, in Grete’s recollection, they fell away entirely to form the table-flat bench which could be seen from here. The abrasive haze his eyes were focused on hung directly over the very gut of the passage where the pinched-in walls stood scarcely twenty feet apart. Grete, reviewing these facts, sat motionless. The crew was mounted, the mares were bunched, a sullen quiet came out of the way these scowling men sat waiting for orders.
Still Farraday watched the yellow creep of that dust drift nearer. It was barely a mile away, say a mile and a half if you were counting the bends. Bill’s understrappers, if Grete had the right of this, were using those broncs to mask their approach. Gauging pace by the dust, he decided they’d be burning powder within the next hour. Very possibly sooner.
Like a general Grete’s look went over the ground. A poor spot for defense and, without memory lied, nothing better to be found this side of the gut. Little cover, no shelter, no good chance for an ambush. But they didn’t have to sit and wait for Bill’s wolves…
“Come on,” he said, throwing up an arm; but Ben kicked his grulla out in front of Grete, stopping him. “Man, you sure ain’t figurin’ to go meet that bunch —”
“Why not?”
The girl’s chunky brother-in-law looked at him aghast. “God’s galluses, Farraday! If that’s Curly Bill’s bunch you might’s well shoot us down like dogs!”
“You got a better
The morning wore on. They nooned by a stream that was thick with willow and hackberry, wolfing down the cold food passed around by Patch, more than one of them grousing the lack of hot coffee. It was on Grete’s orders that no fire was kindled. He closed his eyes for a moment to ease the burn and, drugged by exhaustion, slept for two hours.
He awoke to find Sary’s hand on his shoulder, stared at her stupidly, then sighted his shadow. He sprang up with a curse. Everyone else in camp was asleep. “God damn it,” he snarled, “we got no time for foolishness —”
“You had to have rest.”
“We could have woke up in hell!”
“I stayed awake. I’ve had more sleep than the rest of you.” She saw the narrow-eyed way he was scowling into the west; he’d discovered the dust. “Wild horses,” she said, and lifted a hand toward the stud. “Danny knows. We saw them crossing that saddle —”
The stallion’s sudden trumpeting brought Idaho, bleary-eyed, out of the hackberries. The man hitched his gun up. The quick look he threw around cut the dust and swirled back. She saw the tightening about his jaw and mouth. Farraday nodded. “Get those fools on their feet.”
“It’s only horses,” Sary said. “The stud —”
“Horses sure,” Idaho grumbled.
“And something pushing them,” Farraday said. His tone was dry as snapping sticks. The girl stared uneasily from one to the other. “I saw them crossing that saddle —”
“You can’t see them now. Wild stock don’t travel like that without they’re pushed. Those horses are running.”
Idaho’s shout brought the men off the ground. “Put those mares in the creek —”
“Too late for that. They know we’re here.” Grete frowned at the canyon walls. “We can’t climb out this side of that saddle; if we get that far there won’t be no point to it. Bowie’s not over five miles right now. Bunch the stock. We’ll make a run for it.”
ELEVEN
Here where they’d nooned, the walls of the canyon, perhaps a hundred yards apart, ran straight for an approximate quarter of a mile. At this point, dropping, they swung north in a series of twisting convolutions, then went angling south in a kind of battered crescent as they converged on the saddle, or low notch, the girl had mentioned. There, in Grete’s recollection, they fell away entirely to form the table-flat bench which could be seen from here. The abrasive haze his eyes were focused on hung directly over the very gut of the passage where the pinched-in walls stood scarcely twenty feet apart. Grete, reviewing these facts, sat motionless. The crew was mounted, the mares were bunched, a sullen quiet came out of the way these scowling men sat waiting for orders.
Still Farraday watched the yellow creep of that dust drift nearer. It was barely a mile away, say a mile and a half if you were counting the bends. Bill’s understrappers, if Grete had the right of this, were using those broncs to mask their approach. Gauging pace by the dust, he decided they’d be burning powder within the next hour. Very possibly sooner.
Like a general Grete’s look went over the ground. A poor spot for defense and, without memory lied, nothing better to be found this side of the gut. Little cover, no shelter, no good chance for an ambush. But they didn’t have to sit and wait for Bill’s wolves…
“Come on,” he said, throwing up an arm; but Ben kicked his grulla out in front of Grete, stopping him. “Man, you sure ain’t figurin’ to go meet that bunch —”
“Why not?”
The girl’s chunky brother-in-law looked at him aghast. “God’s galluses, Farraday! If that’s Curly Bill’s bunch you might’s well shoot us down like dogs!”
“You got a better
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