A man swore bitterly and he heard brush scrape along his chaps. The man nearest them yelled, “See anything?”
“No!” The reply was from some distance off to the other side. “Canyon up ahead.”
Their concealment was far from adequate. Only their pursuers were not expecting this and their eyes were looking ahead, always ahead.
The riders went by and then as he was about to look, another rider, and closer still. They heard the horse walking, heard a cork pulled from a canteen and the gurgle of water as the rider drank At the moment he passed them he was plainly within view, only his head was tipped back and he was drinking. Then they heard him rinse his mouth and spit.
Trace Jordan lay stifl, counting a slow fifty. When he did take a chance and look he could see but one rider, some distance off. The rest must have gone down into the canyon the rider had mentioned. Swiftly they got to their feet and, ripping off the blindfolds, got the horses to their feet.
Turning at right angles they headed west, then turned north again, wanting to lose no miles that would carry them closer to safety. Soon they went into the forest of yucca, and when well inside were out of sight of anyone behind them.
What they had gained was at best a breathing spell. When Lantz found no more tracks he would begin searching. They would back-trail until they found the brush and the marks of the bodies. Jordan grinned, picturing the old tracker’s disgust. But they had gained an hour, perhaps less.
Several intermittent streams that flowed only during the rains lay between themselves and the border. Some of these flowed into the Bio de San Bernardino, and others to the Bio de Bavispe. The canyon of one of these streams might offer some protection for their ride to the border, although most of them ran northeast instead of northwest
There was no run left in the Apache pony and not enough in the big red horse. And then they found the canyon they needed and, descending into it, they rode into the shallow water which flowed much of the distance over shelves of stone and they rode upstream.
For over a mile they rode in water scarcely hock-deep, then down to a thin sheet scarcely more than two inches in depth. They dismounted now and walked, liking the feeling of the cool water on their feet, leaving slow miles behind them and little trail.
Ten miles from the point at which they entered the canyon, they saw a way out and accepted the chance. Carefully they mounted the wall At the rim, Jordan stepped down from the saddle and took a long, slow study of the country.
Wherever he looked the country was wide and barren. There were rocks and much cacti, thickets of mesquite, broken ledges upthrust from below.
Emerging, they proceeded with care. Exhaustion had drawn his face into haggard lines. Dust lay along the creases in his face. His eyeballs grated in their sockets and he rode in a daze of weariness. Half a length back, slumping in the saddle, Maria Cristina sat a horse that was all but ready to drop.
They needed rest, food and a chance to recuperate. They needed fodder for the horses.
When he first saw the scraggly-looking brush he was not impressed. It was like fifty other such vague clumps they had passed. It stretched out over most of an acre but what caught his attention was a dip in the ground at one edge of the clump. He rode nearer. It was a hollow nestled with brush and, inside, a small clearing. It was a doubtful-looking place but it offered shelter of an unsuspected kind. In the bottom of the hollow there was a small seep.
They could risk no fire but there was grass for the horses and water they could suck from the grass of the seep. Trace Jordan unsaddled the horses and put them on picket ropes, then began making a small pool by pulling clumps of grass in the wettest part of the seep. Maria Gristina returned to the clearing with some green leaves with reddish stems. These she soaked in water and held against a cut on her arm.
“Yerba mansa,” Jordan said, looking at the leaves.
She looked up, faintly amused. “Well! What d’you know! You know the herbs.”
“Some.”
“Maybe you do well on your ranch. Maybe you good for something after all.”
He chuckled. “You’re hard to convince,” he said. “I never saw a woman like you.”
“What woman? I think you never see a woman. I think all you know is horse. Horse and fight.” She looked at him critically. “You fight pretty good.”
They divided the little jerky that was left and two somewhat battered sandy tortillas. They sat down together, watching the horses browse in the little circle of brush.
“You slow,” she said. “What keep you today! I think maybe those Apaches get away with me.”
There was the suspicion of a smile at the corners of her eyes and mouth. Deep within him something warm grew and mounted.
What a woman! To have a smile left after this! But it was there … a little grim but no longer sullen. She reacted to the danger, the hardship and the flight with a wry smile and a touch of humor.
“Wasn’t anxious to catch up,” he said. “Soon’s they found out what they had, they’d have got rid of you. Saved me some trouble.”
“Hah? You think I’m no good for something?”
He looked at her, coolly estimating. “I think you’re good for plenty,” he said. “Sometime I’ll show you some of the things you’re good for.”
She laughed outright, her eyes sparkling, taunting. “You think so? Me, I don’ think so. I don’t think you ever make it!”
Chapter Five
A fire was out of the question. They had lost their pursuit for the time being but even in this secluded place it would be foolish to risk the slightest smoke. Nor had they any food remaining but coffee and little of that.
Maria Cristina walked to the edge of the brush and watched the desert. The momentary lightness of her mood was gone. She was too wise in the ways of the country not to be completely aware of their situation. They had not won to freedom, only temporary delay. Ben Hindeman would discover at any time what they had done and once more would be on their trail
Each hour of delay was a victory, yet each hour brought them closer to the final decision.
Had Maria Cristina not been with him Trace Jordan would have stopped running. Tired as he was, weak as he still was from his wound, he was nevertheless on the mend. Not even the grueling ride across the desert could keep his strength from rebuilding. Such life had now been his for a good many years.
If she had not been with him he would have turned back and begun to hunt the hunters. He would have been carrying the war to them, rather than running and hiding. Yet he must think of Maria Cristina first.
They were fortunate in their hiding place. There was enough grass and water for the horses and there would be enough to fill their canteens when they left. Also, it was not at all a likely place for any searchers to look. From the outside desert it seemed to offer nothing.
“Better get some sleep,” he advised when she returned from the edge of the brush. “I’ll keep watch.”
“You sleep … I watch.” She looked at him with level eyes, aloof, remote once more. “I call you.”
He was dead tired but he hesitated. Yet she was obviously wide awake and apparently in no mood for sleep. He walked to his bed roll and stretched out and almost at once his muscles let go and he sagged into sleep. The last thing he remembered was a little gust of wind stirring the leaves.
A hand on his shoulder awakened him to pitch darkness. He sat up, realizing there were no stars. The night was wild with wind and heavily overcast. The brush whipped hard and the horses stood with their backs to the wind, obviously uneasy.
“I see nothing. I rest now.”
“All right.” He pulled on his boots, got up and stamped his feet into them. “Feels like a storm.”‘
“Si … I think so.”
Blown sand stung his cheek and he pulled his hat low to keep it on his head. Reaching for his gun belts, he slung them about his hips.
She moved past him in the darkness and he put his arm out and pulled her to him. Swiftly she struck down his hand and started to move away but seized by a sudden hot gust of desire, he caught her and drew her into his arms.