Then he heard it. A distant sound of a wagon rolling, bumping over rocks or branches, occasionally a curse from one of the drivers. Two riders came into view, at least three hundred yards off. One stood in his stirrups and looked all around. Mac remained immobile and was not worried. From their distance they would not see him unless he moved. They were well out in the open now, but to cross Copano Creek they would have to turn inland and find a way where the creek was narrower or where crossing was easier.
From the way the sunlight fell, his glasses did not reflect, and he had a chance to study them well. Colonel Ashford still wore his now-shabby uniform coat with the insignia of his rank. There were other faces he could pick out, including that of Frank from the trouble in Victoria.
What could be done to delay them? How could they help the girls to escape? Would there be a chance while crossing the Copano?
Or should they try sharp-shooting, picking off one and then another? He disliked the idea of shooting men from ambush, but they had, in a sense, placed themselves beyond fair play when they took women as prisoners to be sold as slaves.
The shore where they apparently intended going was deserted. Parts of it were cut off from view by low sand-hills piled up by storms in ages past. Hurricanes along this coast struck with frightful effect – that much he knew, although he had never seen one. For a time he had served with a Ranger who had lived on the Gulf Coast and told stories of the storms and the damage they created.
There was no sign of that now. The sky was clear and blue, the air very clear.
Now the caravan had stopped. Several riders had closed in around Ashford and were talking. He wished he could read lips. There had been a man in his outfit who had deaf parents, and had become quite adept at it, learning from them.
They were going to turn. They were going to be coming right toward him, although on the far side of the creek. Bit by bit, so as to offer no decisive, clear-cut movement to be seen, he eased back into the trees, then walked several yards back into the forest.
Retracing his steps he found Happy Jack Traven sitting with a cup of coffee in his hands and Dal tugging on his boots. “Better douse the fire,” he said, “but gently. We don’t want any smoke.”
Dal took up the pot and filled his cup. “Are they coming, Mac?”
“A few miles off. They have to ford Copano Creek over yonder.” He pointed. “There’s nothing on the water but a couple of far-off fishing boats. They’ll probably make camp on the beach.”
“What about that ford?” Happy Jack asked. “If we’re goin’ to move, it had better be soon.”
Mac mentioned his thought about picking them off. “Takes too long,” Dal said. “How many could we get before they hole up or fight back? Two? Three?”
Mac filled his own cup from the pot that would soon have to be dumped.
Happy Jack got to his feet. “I’ll get the horses, although from what you say they won’t be doin’ us much good.”
Mac stared into the remains of the raked-out fire. Dal was scattering handsful of dirt over the coals. What chance did they have? He stared bitterly, probing his brain for some thought, some idea, some suggestion.
Those girls now, they had to be scared. And what of Susan’s mother, who had to leave her little daughter behind, just hoping her father would arrive in time? What must she be thinking now? Had he come? Suppose he was dead? What would Susan do? What if Indians came first? Had she been wrong? Would it have been better to bring the child along?
Kate … Kate was strong. She was attractive, damned attractive, but she had inner strength and she had grown up on the frontier, using her head every minute.
Yet they would be in despair. After all, by now they must know what lay before them and that a ship was to meet them here.
They could not know that Dal was alive, or perhaps that they were even close. Still, there must have been some talk around their camp. Frank was not the type to keep his mouth shut, so perhaps they did know their brothers were somewhere near.
If so, they would be hoping, and Mac knew that they could not fail them. After all, they were their only chance. “We aren’t going to fail,” he said aloud, “not if we have to kill every one of them and sink their ship.” Nobody spoke. They felt as he did, but the question was, how?
“When we stampeded the cattle,” he said, “that may have given them something to hope on. At least, they knew somebody was around.”
“Seen some tracks of wild cattle,” Happy Jack remarked. “There’s longhorns a-plenty in this brush.”
“And about everything else! Everwhere a body looks there’s thorns or stickers.”
They rinsed their cups at the branch that trickled by under the trees and packed them so they would not rattle.
“Maybe,” Dal said, “when they try to ford that creek, we might have a chance.”
Mac checked his guns again. His mouth felt dry, and his heart was beating with slow, heavy thumps. What could they do? No matter. Now was the time. They had no choice.
“If we could even get one of them away!” Dal said. “Maybe if Jesse -?”
“We don’t know what kind of shape he’s in. He may be hurt bad. He may be all tied up.”
“Leave it to Kate. She won’t be tied up, and believe you me, she’s got it all figured out by now. If we only knew what she has in mind.”
“We’d better leave the horses, and one of us come back for them. It’s not easy getting them closer, and one of them might whinny when they smell their stock.”
The thicket was tight with interwoven branches and there were places where only a man might get through; yet as they approached the creek and the Gulf shore the growth thinned a little, so movement became easier.
Several of the riders were already across the creek when they arrived. They were sitting their horses, looking back at the approaching caravan. The teams had been exchanged, and both wagons were now pulled by oxen from among the captured animals. They were slower but better for the heavy pulling that might be expected on the marsh-like banks of the creek and the heavy sand of the beach.
The supply wagon was first, heavily loaded with both food and ammunition, as well as bedding. Gingerly, the oxen came down the marshy bank and into the water. It was belly deep, but the cattle moved steadily forward.
They were mid-stream when Mac threw his rifle to his shoulder and shot the lead ox.
The ox threw up its head, then disappeared under the water. Riders wheeled to face the direction from which the shot had come. Firing from well back in the trees, Mac knocked a man from his horse. Happy Jack got another, and Dal’s shot dropped a second ox.
A volley of shots cut through the leaves overhead, but the Travens had already moved back, keeping low to the ground.
One of the riders rode his horse into the water to cut loose the dead oxen. Excited by the smell of blood on the water the horse began to buck and plunge, throwing its rider into the river.
From the bank of the stream Happy Jack could see the girls’ wagon, but it was surrounded by several riders, and to shoot at them would endanger the girls.
The Travens faded back, deeper into the brush. At times they had to get down and crawl along game trails, but they worked their way back.
“We stopped ’em, but now what?” Jack asked.
“They’ll send skirmishers into the brush,” Mac said, “and we’re not apt to get that close again until they’re out of the brush.”
“There’s two less to deal with,” Jack said, “and they won’t have those oxen cut loose and the wagons out of the way in less than an hour.”
It allowed them very little time, and they were no closer to freeing the girls now than before.
Mac seated himself on a log and stared into nothingness. What could they do now? What chance did they have?
Jack’s face was a picture of discouragement. Removing his hat he stared into the crown. He looked over at Dal, leaning against a tree.
“Maybe in the sand-hills,” Dal said finally. “At least we have an idea where they are going.”
Mac got to his feet. “If only that ship doesn’t get here. We need time! Time!”