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they trampled him under foot. Considine fired and fired again. He saw another
Indian fall, and then he felt the black's muscles bunch under him and knew he
was going down.
Kicking free of the stirrups, he grabbed the saddlebags with their spare
ammunition and as the horse fell he left him, hit the ground, and rolled over.
He saw an Indian break cover near him and start for him, and then a bullet
from the rock circle ahead stopped him in mid-stride.
Considine knew they would have marked where he fell, so he lay still,
flattened out in the grass. Behind him he heard Dutch firing.
Suddenly the shooting stopped, and the echoes cannonaded off down the canyon
and lost themselves in the still, hot afternoon.
He smelled the sun-hot grass under his nostrils, smelled the crushed creosote
brush near him, the warm, good smell of the earth under him, and he knew he
loved life as never before.
He lay very still. Dutch was no longer shooting. Had they gotten the big
fellow? He doubted it ... Dutch would die hard ... and long.
A bee, undisturbed by the fighting, buzzed near a cactus blossom. Considine
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rolled on his side and emptied the shells from his pistol and reloaded. Then
he thrust a couple of shells into the magazine of theWinchester . The '73
would carry seventeen bullets, and he would need them.
He dearly wanted to lift his head and locate himself, get his exact position,
but he dared not. In this deadly game the first to move was often the first to
die, and he did not want to die. He did not want to die at all.
The Kiowa had sat very still, waiting. He glanced out of the corners of his
eyes at Hardy. "You rode partners with Considine," he said.
"That's why I'm going to look after his share. He will want it if he ever
gets out of there alive."
"Always said you had no guts."
Hardy glared at the breed. The Kiowa was taunting him, but there was no
malice in the taunt. He just seemed to be waiting for something he knew would
happen.
Hardy felt cold and empty inside. He knew what fighting Apaches meant, and he
had seen what they did to men they captured alive. He had fought them before
this, had seen his friends die in their hands.
It gave him a sick feeling to think of it ... he knew he was afraid of them.
Considine was a fool, but then there was something between Considine and that
girl. He had seen the way they looked at each other.
He took the saddlebags and tossed them to the Kiowa. "Cut it four ways and
wait for us!" He wheeled his horse sharply and lit out on the trail Dutch had
taken.
The Kiowa chuckled. None of his three companions had ever heard him chuckle.
He tied the bags in place,then turned his horse into the mountains. He took
his time, thinking it out. He was more Indian than white now, and he knew what
he was doing.
But he laughed when he reached the crest.
He had no God, no people that were really his own; he had no wife, no hero,
no brother anywhere. He was a man who rode alone, even when in company with
others. But he liked to fight and he liked men who fought, and he knew that if
Hardy had not gone he would have killed him.
When he reached a place where he could look into thebasinofHigh Lonesome
there was nothing to see, nothing to hear. The afternoon was breathless. The
grass stood motionless under the sun and then within the circle of rocks he
saw sunlight on a rifle barrel.
He watched, and presently he saw the girl. She was alive, then.And the man,
too.
He could see no sign of Considine, of Dutch, nor of Hardy. He loosened the
reins and rode down the mountain, a square, dark man the color of the desert
near lava, sitting easy in the saddle. Horse and man seemed one.
HisWinchester was held out from his body. The flat black eyes were alert. He
felt the sweat on his neck and chest.
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Suddenly he chuckled again. He would have liked to paint his face. After all,
he was an Indian and he was riding into a fight.
His sombrero was tilted back a little, and he swung his horse over to an
easier descent, and then he saw two Indians crouched close together among some
brush.
He drewup, not looking directly at them for fear his continued gaze would
attract their attention. He lifted the rifle and sighted down the barrel, one
eye closed, the other eye centering the muzzle on an Indian's spine.
He sighted first at one Indian, then at the other. A fly buzzed near him and
he brushed it away. His horse shifted its weight under him and he held still,
waiting. When its feet were planted solid again he settled the stock against
his shoulder, took a quick sight, eased back on the trigger ... the rifle
leaped like a thing alive, and the Indian screamed ... a shrill, horrible
scream. The second one leaped up, but the sight was already on him and a
tearing bullet opened his throat and laid it red to the sky.
Lowering his rifle, the Kiowa walked his horse on down the hill.
Chapter XI
CONSIDINE HUGGED THE earth, but he drew one knee up slowly and dug his toe
into the sand. His right hand slid the rifle forward. He tried to estimate the [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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