suggestion?”
“I say, by God, let’s get outa here —”
“Afoot? You can’t take a horse out of this canyon short of that saddle —”
“We can go back the way we come —”
“Go ahead if you’ve got the stomach for it. One of that pair at the ranch pulled out last night. If he’s done what I figure, you’ll find yourself faced with some more of Bill’s wolves. Way I see it they’re closing in from both ends.” Grete’s look swept the rest of them. “You can die like a rat in their trap or you can fight. I’m electing to fight,” he said, and picked up his reins.
There was a kind of bleak quiet while all hands stared at Idaho. You couldn’t tell what went on behind those raw-red cheeks still scuffed and scabbed with the marks of Grete’s fists and the bucket Grete had broken against the man’s bony head. The gunfighter’s shrewd, part-closed eyes touched Sary, then moved unreadably at Grete. “You’re the boss. Give your orders.”
Grete didn’t know if he was relieved or more worried, but this was no time to be unraveling riddles. “They know we’re in front of them but maybe not how far. We’re in no position to try any traps but we can, if we go at this right, throw those damn broncs right back in their laps. With this drive coming down on them hellity-larrup they’re going to have to drag cotton and dig for the tules. Short of that saddle, they’ll have no chance to pull up and make a fight of it — not if we hit them right. If we push these mares hard enough we ought to be onto them before they can get set.”
Idaho, studying that, finally nodded. “They won’t see our dust. But it’s like to be hell with the clapper off when this drive smashes into them wild ones.”
“We’re going to have to chance that. We’ll lose stock, but if we bring them up slow Bill’s boys will empty some saddles. There’ll be enough powder burnt when we come onto that bench. Shoot all you want, keep the mares bunched if you can, but once you’re in the open don’t stop,” he said grimly, “or you won’t ever leave there.”
He slanched a last look around, raised an arm, and the crew, shaking ropes out, got the mares on the go. Dust boiled up in a pounding of hoof sound. The mares broke into a run, gathering speed. They rocked into the first twirl of the wriggles and twists. They were slowed by the turns, whooped ahead by the yelling. Right and left they weaved, scraping rock, crowding, jostling, shrilly squealing, swapping leads in perfect unison and, heckled by the shouts and ropes, filling the passage like a wall of water.
Sweat dripped off the men, darkened and lathered the coats of the horses. Racket came off the walls like bedlam, echo piling on echo until the stock went crazy with it. The eyes of the mares wildly rolled in their sockets as they broke out of the twists and poured into the narrowing hoop of the crescent.
Neither side knew where the other was now. They met head-on in full career, shock reaching back into the drag of both outfits. Screams and terror jammed the passage. The batter of sound was constant. Dust boiled up until the way was choked with it. Thick as a pea-soup fog it billowed, strangling, blinding, wave on wave, pulsating, oscillating, eddying and whirling until a man could hardly find the horse between his legs.
But the drive, Grete realized, had never quite stopped. It had staggered and slowed, but the weight of momentum, of close-packed numbers, was pushing it irresistibly on through the dust and the high thin screams of mangled flesh. Now the crew was firing over the heads of the drag, stampeding the pack animals into the crush. The pace picked up — Grete could see the packs jouncing. The whole drive began to run. Sun came through in shining tatters and lances until presently, vaguely, like something glimpsed through sanded glass, Grete could see the far shapes of frantic horsemen quirting.
The crew saw them, too, at once unlimbering their rifles.
“I say, by God, let’s get outa here —”
“Afoot? You can’t take a horse out of this canyon short of that saddle —”
“We can go back the way we come —”
“Go ahead if you’ve got the stomach for it. One of that pair at the ranch pulled out last night. If he’s done what I figure, you’ll find yourself faced with some more of Bill’s wolves. Way I see it they’re closing in from both ends.” Grete’s look swept the rest of them. “You can die like a rat in their trap or you can fight. I’m electing to fight,” he said, and picked up his reins.
There was a kind of bleak quiet while all hands stared at Idaho. You couldn’t tell what went on behind those raw-red cheeks still scuffed and scabbed with the marks of Grete’s fists and the bucket Grete had broken against the man’s bony head. The gunfighter’s shrewd, part-closed eyes touched Sary, then moved unreadably at Grete. “You’re the boss. Give your orders.”
Grete didn’t know if he was relieved or more worried, but this was no time to be unraveling riddles. “They know we’re in front of them but maybe not how far. We’re in no position to try any traps but we can, if we go at this right, throw those damn broncs right back in their laps. With this drive coming down on them hellity-larrup they’re going to have to drag cotton and dig for the tules. Short of that saddle, they’ll have no chance to pull up and make a fight of it — not if we hit them right. If we push these mares hard enough we ought to be onto them before they can get set.”
Idaho, studying that, finally nodded. “They won’t see our dust. But it’s like to be hell with the clapper off when this drive smashes into them wild ones.”
“We’re going to have to chance that. We’ll lose stock, but if we bring them up slow Bill’s boys will empty some saddles. There’ll be enough powder burnt when we come onto that bench. Shoot all you want, keep the mares bunched if you can, but once you’re in the open don’t stop,” he said grimly, “or you won’t ever leave there.”
He slanched a last look around, raised an arm, and the crew, shaking ropes out, got the mares on the go. Dust boiled up in a pounding of hoof sound. The mares broke into a run, gathering speed. They rocked into the first twirl of the wriggles and twists. They were slowed by the turns, whooped ahead by the yelling. Right and left they weaved, scraping rock, crowding, jostling, shrilly squealing, swapping leads in perfect unison and, heckled by the shouts and ropes, filling the passage like a wall of water.
Sweat dripped off the men, darkened and lathered the coats of the horses. Racket came off the walls like bedlam, echo piling on echo until the stock went crazy with it. The eyes of the mares wildly rolled in their sockets as they broke out of the twists and poured into the narrowing hoop of the crescent.
Neither side knew where the other was now. They met head-on in full career, shock reaching back into the drag of both outfits. Screams and terror jammed the passage. The batter of sound was constant. Dust boiled up until the way was choked with it. Thick as a pea-soup fog it billowed, strangling, blinding, wave on wave, pulsating, oscillating, eddying and whirling until a man could hardly find the horse between his legs.
But the drive, Grete realized, had never quite stopped. It had staggered and slowed, but the weight of momentum, of close-packed numbers, was pushing it irresistibly on through the dust and the high thin screams of mangled flesh. Now the crew was firing over the heads of the drag, stampeding the pack animals into the crush. The pace picked up — Grete could see the packs jouncing. The whole drive began to run. Sun came through in shining tatters and lances until presently, vaguely, like something glimpsed through sanded glass, Grete could see the far shapes of frantic horsemen quirting.
The crew saw them, too, at once unlimbering their rifles.
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