Big Red was rested and eager. He lunged into the trail with that swift space-eating stride that was only his. And the miles fell behind with the trail’s dust and the sun came up, hot and red. The desert turned to flame and sweat streaked the dust on Big Red’s flanks and soaked Jordan’s shirt. Twice he dismounted and walked, leading the horse to give him rest
The trail led on and he forgot in the heat of the day’s red sun the men who might be following him and thought only of the men ahead and of the girl they had.
And the tracks grew fresher. He was gaining. The gain was slight but nevertheless he gained.
It was hot… no air stirred. He rode through a land that looked like Hell with the fires out, a land of great clinkers, burned out, destroyed … a land of great serrated rocky spines, of tall spires and broken battlements, a land of deep canyons and washes where rain sometimes created streams, white now, and dead. Forests of yucca and armies of prickly pear, occasional elephant trees and clustered columns of the organ-pipe cactus.
It was a land unpeopled and still … a gila monster moved upon a rock, a chaparral cock darted ahead of him. Yet the desert riders pushed on into the wasteland where the sun was a ball of fire in a sky of molten flame above a red and scarred land where the only sound was the muffled beat of his own horse’s hoofs, the creak of his own saddle-leather.
Down there ahead of him, somewhere in the desert, must be a rancheria.
He did not stop for food. He ate from the sack and pushed on. The big red horse labored now but seemed to understand his rider’s urgency. And he was stronger than the small grass-fed Apaches’ ponies and he was gaining.
Once he glanced back. And felt his throat tighten when he did. Behind him was a plume of dust
They had wasted no time in picking up his trail once he began moving. And there was no time for playing hare to their hounds now, no time for subterfuge. Now he must ride, ride, ride!
Then, far ahead, he saw dust. A wisp of dust, soon vanished. He broke into the open and saw them ahead of him. Three horses, hard-running. Three…?
Only just in time, he swung his horse. The realization that only three riders rode ahead caused its instant reaction. He swung the horse and a bullet whipped by his skull, missing by inches only. And then he saw the Apache streaking for his horse. With one hand he swung his Winchester and fired a shot.
The bullet spat dust just ahead of the fleeing man and, slamming Big Bed with the spurs, Jordan went after him, working the lever on the Winchester as he rode.
The Apache despaired of reaching his horse and turning, fired. He shot too quick and missed and then the big red horse slammed into him, hitting him with a shoulder and knocking the Indian rolling.
Without slowing, Jordan went on, only taking time to start the Apache’s pony running.
The Apaches ahead spread out, taking different directions. They must know of the men behind him or they would have stopped to fight; but now they ran. One man carried double and Jordan went after him. Yet as he rode, he wondered … would they kill her when he reached them?
Suddenly Maria Cristina was fighting and then with the pony at a dead run she twisted free and flung herself from the saddle. She hit the sand, bounding like a sack of old clothes, then rolling over.
The Apache veered to pursue her and Jordan came between them. The Apache swung his rifle but Jordan parried the blow and struck up with the butt. He knocked the rifle from the Indian’s hands and then they were off their horses and fighting furiously.
The Apache’s hand closed over his knife hilt first as Jordan hit him with a long right. The blow knocked him down and Jordan sprang for him with both boots. The Indian rolled over and came up fast and they closed, struggling fiercely. Then Jordan broke a hand free and struck upward with his fist The blow knocked the Indian back and Jordan kicked him in the knee with his boot heel.
The Apache was blocky, powerfully muscled and tough. He went down but rolled over and palmed his knife for a throw … and Trace Jordan shot him through the body.
The Apache fell, tried to get up, then sprawled out. He lay still then, a slim brown body in the hot white sun, and the dust of the fighting sifted over.
Trace Jordan mopped the sweat from his brow. Of the other Indians there was no sign. He turned slowly and walked toward Maria Cristina.
She was on her feet, facing him. Her face was dusty and her hair blew in the wind. It blew across her cheek. Her hands were bound together and her blouse was torn but she stood, feet apart, waiting for him.
He cut free her hands. For an instant they stood together, their eyes holding. He started to take her in his arms but she stepped back quickly, shrinking, her eyes wide like those of a frightened animal “No . . . No . . .”
He let his hands fall. Turning, he went to where his horse waited and gathered up the reins. Then he rounded up an Apache pony and led it to her. Without comment she mounted and as she got into the Indian’s blanket saddle he noticed she had taken the Indian’s Winchester and ammunition. The cartridge belt was slung across her shoulder.
Behind them the dust was closer. He even believed he could distinguish figures through the dust.
They started, but not too fast The horses behind them had come far and would be in no shape for a sprint. And his own horse needed rest.
They were riding north now and his thoughts were going on ahead. This was still Mexico but the Arizona border was north of them and they would reach the border sixty or seventy miles west of the Sutton-Bayless holdings. If they could reach a town, Just any town where there was a sheriff. …
But there was no town. Not close enough to help. Tubac was still farther west, Tucson and Tombstone too far north. Their best chance was the John Slaughter ranch at San Bernardino Springs. And there was a chance they could reach it in time. They might then claim sanctuary from John Slaughter and he was no man with whom to trifle, not even the Sutton outfit.
He led the way into an arroyo, then doubled back along the canyon to another, then out of it and into a thick forest of yucca and nopal. He used every trick now, riding slower, taking their time, their horses a dozen yards apart to raise less dust They used the brush for cover, moving together, then apart.
Behind them the riders had separated, they had spread out to cover more ground. And they were gaining.
Suddenly he had an idea. It came to him out of nowhere, so foolish, so risky, so dangerous that for a moment he doubted his sanity. It was the fact that they were riding spread out that gave them a chance.
He glanced right and left, seeing some fairly dense brush. Lifting a hand for a halt during the few minutes they were out of sight, he slid quicldy to the ground and threw his horse. By the time Maria Cristina had come up, he had blindfolded his horse and, seeing what he had done, she slid to the ground and did likewise. Hurriedly then they gathered brush to cover both horses. Then they lay down, under the edge of the brush themselves. Big Red was trembling but at the calming voices of Jordan and Maria Cristina both horses quieted, frightened by this sudden darkness in which they found themselves.
It was an old trick. Many a time he had seen horses led across rickety bridges in this way or taken from fires. A blindfolded horse lies quiet.
It was very hot. The heat of the earth was frightful. If one of the horses moved at the wrong time … but the sudden darkness held them still.
Dust was thick beneath them. Gun in hand, he waited. Sweat ran down his face and he knew that if one of the riders swung closer and came into this space their concealment would not be sufficient. There was the smell of the horse, of his own unwashed clothing, and the mingled smells of creosote and crushed thamnosma. And then he heard the horses coming.
He heard two of them at once and was immediately sure they were too close. He tensed, ready to spring up shooting. If they got him he figured he could take at least two with him. He would … he could hear a horse walking. He put a quieting hand on Big Red.