The Savage Trail by Jory Sherman

craziest idea I ever heard,” Ben said.
    â€œMaybe, but it’s the only idea I have.”
    â€œIt might work.”
    â€œThey won’t expect us to ride straight at them.”
    â€œNo, ’cause they’re probably not loco.”
    â€œThat sun’s going to blind them for fair.”
    â€œIf we time it right, it might play hob with their eyes, all right.”
    â€œWe can cover a hundred yards at a gallop faster than they can figure out what we’re doing, I think.”
    â€œStill, we’re out in the open. They got rocks to pertect ’em.”
    â€œMy guess is they’ll step out and try to pick us off with their pistols. Once we’re close enough, I’ll yell and you break off from behind me and start spitting lead at them. First bullet they hear coming, they’ll dive for the dirt.”
    â€œYou think.”
    â€œWell, I have to figure they’re not just going to stand there with empty rifles or try to stuff cartridges in the magazines.”
    â€œYou give this a heap of thought, did you, Johnny?”
    John looked at the sun again, a quick glance so he wouldn’t burn his eyes. More of the blazing disk had slid up over the horizon, and more was coming.
    â€œLet’s start now,” he said to Ben. “You fall in right behind me and hunker down low. Stay as close as you can and just watch Gent’s rump.”
    â€œNot an appetizin’ sight, Johnny.”
    â€œIt’ll keep you alive, Ben.”
    â€œSo you say.” Ben spat and reined Dynamite in behind Savage.
    John took one more measurement with his fingers, then touched the blunt spurs to Gent’s flanks. They started moving toward the rock pile. Now, Savage thought, he would have to tick off seconds in his mind. Keep track of time and hope he was right. The timing was everything, and still, he knew he was taking a big chance. He didn’t know how many men he was facing, but he figured at least two. And it could be Hobart and that Delgado woman.
    He kept his eyes on the rock spires, kept Gent on a straight line. His stomach knotted up as the distance shrank. He still couldn’t make out how many rifles he was facing, but he was looking for movement. Whoever was behind those rocks must be wondering what he was doing riding straight at them. Maybe they were counting their chickens before they were hatched, thinking he was just curious.
    He sat straight in the saddle. When he looked at Ben out of the corner of his eye, not moving his head very much, he saw that Ben was hugging his horse’s neck, flattened out on the saddle like a griddle cake.
    He had to figure time and distance. He measured the distancewith his eyes, hoping he was right. He would soon know. They were still at a walk and the rocks looked closer. Were closer. He figured they were less than four hundred yards from the rifles by then. And none of the bushwhackers had moved from their hiding place.
    He expected one of them might lie flat next to the rocky outcropping to steady himself for the first shot. So far he was only seeing those blinding glints of sunlight bouncing off rifle barrels.
    Three hundred yards, John figured, and his hands were sweating. His pistol was still in his holster, but he was ready to draw and cock whenever it was time.
    Two hundred yards and closing, he thought. Perspiration dripped down from his armpits, soaking through the back of his shirt. He wiped his forehead and hunkered down slightly, peering past Gent’s neck straight at the outcropping.
    He heard Ben clear his throat and then spit again.
    It was quiet except for the soft thud of the horses’ hooves on dry ground, or the crunch of a twig, the rustle of sage. Even the quail were silent, and there wasn’t a bird or a hawk in the sky.
    The mountain shadows rose higher and higher and John could measure the sun’s height just by looking beyond the rocks.
    When he thought he was close to a hundred yards from