shoot.
They went back to the fire. And for the first
time Tuttle had nothing to say. He dropped cross-legged in the range of the
heat and drew his knife from its sheath. With infinite care he set about honing
the blade on the sole of his moccasin. When Ritchie drifted off to sleep, he
was still there, still at work, now and again lifting his head to listen to the
sounds from beyond the firelight.
The missing horses had not gone far. They had
been too exhausted to really lose themselves, and the canyon walls had held
them from scattering. By midmorning the next day, even moving at the snail's
pace they were now reduced to, the dragoons had come up with all but one of the
truants.
But it was when they hit the plain that the
worst blow fell. A scrap of brown protruding out of a drift, which appeared
disturbed at the top, drew Herndon out of the line of march .
It did not need more than a few scoops of snow dug out by hand to reveal the
stiff body of the roan Velasco had ridden out of their last camp. Neatly
through the white star between its wide, glazed eyes a bullet had been fired.
One leg was snapped, the bone thrust through the thin hide of the shin.
Across the body of the roan Herndon faced
Tuttle. Kristland came up, looked blankly at the horse, and began to laugh, a
low sound growing into a wild peal that made Ritchie want to cover his ears.
"Lots of luck, boys," sputtered the
trumpeter between gasps of insane laughter, "lots of luck—'n all of it
bad!"
There was the smack of flesh meeting flesh,
and the trumpeter rocked back on his heels. Herndon flipped his hand across his
coat with a wiping motion. Kristland had stopped laughing, but his eyes on the
Sergeant's back were bright and hard.
"Velasco"—Herndon's voice still had all its hard, assured ring—"is a veteran scout. He
knows this country, and there is no reason to believe that he cannot reach the
stage station, even on foot. It is up to us to push on as fast as we can to
meet the relief force he may have already started toward us. This horse is
frozen; the accident must have taken place hours ago, maybe soon after he
left."
"Sure," muttered the man next to
Ritchie. "March on 'n die in our tracks 'n they'll find us when the thaw
comes in the spring. Join the army 'n freeze it out! On yore feet, kid."
He turned to Ritchie and put out a hand to pull him up. "Where's the Injun
brat?"
"Up on Star. Hope he's light enough so
that horse won't give out too—"
"Ain't more'n a bag of bones,"
commented the dragoon critically. "But none of us are exactly fatties now . ' N we won't make pretty corpses—'nough to scare the guts
outta the fellas as will find us."
No one answered that sally. They had come
again to a place of drifts through which they had to beat their way as they had
on the first dismal days of their march. Only this time the heart was almost
gone out of them; their last hope had flickered and died with the discovery of
Velasco's horse.
It was Tuttle and the Sergeant who kept them
on their feet and moving. Men who fell were pulled, even beaten up again, pommeled until they escaped punishment by crawling forward a
step or two. Half-dead horses and mules which could barely drag their hooves
were brought up and bodies thrown across them, the same bodies stung into
wakefulness by constant slaps and punches. Toward the end Herndon stripped off
his belt and was using it with grim energy to keep them going.
And when help came, they simply didn't believe
in it. There was some sort of noise up ahead which meant nothing to their
dulled ears. They did not even look up from the trampled snow—that snow which
must
They went back to the fire. And for the first
time Tuttle had nothing to say. He dropped cross-legged in the range of the
heat and drew his knife from its sheath. With infinite care he set about honing
the blade on the sole of his moccasin. When Ritchie drifted off to sleep, he
was still there, still at work, now and again lifting his head to listen to the
sounds from beyond the firelight.
The missing horses had not gone far. They had
been too exhausted to really lose themselves, and the canyon walls had held
them from scattering. By midmorning the next day, even moving at the snail's
pace they were now reduced to, the dragoons had come up with all but one of the
truants.
But it was when they hit the plain that the
worst blow fell. A scrap of brown protruding out of a drift, which appeared
disturbed at the top, drew Herndon out of the line of march .
It did not need more than a few scoops of snow dug out by hand to reveal the
stiff body of the roan Velasco had ridden out of their last camp. Neatly
through the white star between its wide, glazed eyes a bullet had been fired.
One leg was snapped, the bone thrust through the thin hide of the shin.
Across the body of the roan Herndon faced
Tuttle. Kristland came up, looked blankly at the horse, and began to laugh, a
low sound growing into a wild peal that made Ritchie want to cover his ears.
"Lots of luck, boys," sputtered the
trumpeter between gasps of insane laughter, "lots of luck—'n all of it
bad!"
There was the smack of flesh meeting flesh,
and the trumpeter rocked back on his heels. Herndon flipped his hand across his
coat with a wiping motion. Kristland had stopped laughing, but his eyes on the
Sergeant's back were bright and hard.
"Velasco"—Herndon's voice still had all its hard, assured ring—"is a veteran scout. He
knows this country, and there is no reason to believe that he cannot reach the
stage station, even on foot. It is up to us to push on as fast as we can to
meet the relief force he may have already started toward us. This horse is
frozen; the accident must have taken place hours ago, maybe soon after he
left."
"Sure," muttered the man next to
Ritchie. "March on 'n die in our tracks 'n they'll find us when the thaw
comes in the spring. Join the army 'n freeze it out! On yore feet, kid."
He turned to Ritchie and put out a hand to pull him up. "Where's the Injun
brat?"
"Up on Star. Hope he's light enough so
that horse won't give out too—"
"Ain't more'n a bag of bones,"
commented the dragoon critically. "But none of us are exactly fatties now . ' N we won't make pretty corpses—'nough to scare the guts
outta the fellas as will find us."
No one answered that sally. They had come
again to a place of drifts through which they had to beat their way as they had
on the first dismal days of their march. Only this time the heart was almost
gone out of them; their last hope had flickered and died with the discovery of
Velasco's horse.
It was Tuttle and the Sergeant who kept them
on their feet and moving. Men who fell were pulled, even beaten up again, pommeled until they escaped punishment by crawling forward a
step or two. Half-dead horses and mules which could barely drag their hooves
were brought up and bodies thrown across them, the same bodies stung into
wakefulness by constant slaps and punches. Toward the end Herndon stripped off
his belt and was using it with grim energy to keep them going.
And when help came, they simply didn't believe
in it. There was some sort of noise up ahead which meant nothing to their
dulled ears. They did not even look up from the trampled snow—that snow which
must
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