They were painted for war, and every man was armed.
I rolled over slowly, got my hands under me, and stood up. Some lites, traveling back from a fight with the Comanches had once stayed at our ranch, recovering from their wounds. Pa had let them have three horses, although we were hard-up. But while they were there I had learned a little of their language. These would be Pah-uteeas. I spoke to them.
They looked at me. I tried Eng at have.
“Much hurt,” I said. “Bad man shoot me.
I have no gun. I follow. He run.” “You follow Medicine Trail.” The Indian who spoke was weirdly gotten up.
A medicine man?
“Yes. The Sky Chief tells me to follow the Medicine Road and the Pah-ute will help me.” They stared at me, muttering among themselves. It was different from the tongue I knew, but it was similar.
Sometimes only a word or two seemed right; sometimes a whole sentence fell into place for me.
They led several spare horses, and suddenly a so] warrior rode over to me with a horse, and catching him on the mane, I swung to its back.
They Ied off swiftly, and clinging to the mane, I rode with them.
Their village was miles away, but somehow I clung to the horse and kept on with them.
When we came to the village at last, I saw that it was made up of perhaps two dozen lodges huddled in a cluster on a bench above a ravine. The position was good-it was sheltered, and there was water and fuel.
For four days I lay in their village and they fed and cared for me. An old woman came into the lodge where I was and took care of my wounds.
On the at day I walked out of the lodge. I was weak, but felt I was able to go.
“What you do now?” the chief asked.
‘I will go to the white maiys town and find the man who shot me.” “You have no gun.” “I will find a gun.” ‘allyou have no horse.” ‘I ask my red brother to lend me one. I will return it if I am able, or I will pay you.” “My people are at war with your people.” “I did not know this. I have been where the Great Water lies, under the setting sun. I go back where my squaw is, in Colorado.” He smoked and thought. Then he said, ‘allyou brave man. We follow your blood … many miles. You find your enemy, you kill.” He looked up at me. “I have no gun to give, but I will give pony.” He pointed with his pipe. “You take that one.” It was a mouse-colored horse, about fourteen hands, a good horse.
“Thank you.” I walked over to the horse, which was fitted with a hackamore.
Swinging astride, I rode up to his fire.
‘allyou are a great chief,” I said, “and you are my friend. If any man asks you, say you are a friend of Shell Tucker.” Turning, I rode away, and they stood together, watching me go.
I looked back once. They were a war party, and I had seen fresh scalps.
Within the hour I had picked up the trail. Two horses, one led.
And I knew the tracks of that line-back dun as I knew the cracks in my own hands.
The gruea I rode ‘” a good horse. The Pah-ute had given me a good one because he knew I had a long chase ahead of me, and he knew what sort of horse a man needed when the trail stretched on for uncounted miles. Its gait was smooth. That horse was no showboat, but he’d get in there and stay until the sun was gone and the moon was up.
When I came down out of those bleak, bitter mountains with the taste of alkali on my lips and my skin white from the dust of it, I had no idea where I was, only that I was riding east.
First it had been Bob Heseltine and Kid Reese. Now it was Zole.
I’d find him somewhere up ahead, or he’d find me, and that would be an end to all of it, or part of it, depending on who saw who first.
A rugged, rawboned range lay before me, and across the flat of a vanished lake the jagged peaks lifted up.
Not high … not many of those desert ranges are high, but they are dry, and they are all jagged edge, broken rock, and plants with thorns ready to tear the flesh.
A trail showed . . . a trail that had seen some use, though not lately-except for that lone-riding man with two horses.
The trail pointed into the saw-toothed ridges, and I pointed the grulla that way and said, “Their way is our way, boy. Let’s be a-go’m”.” I thought of Con Judy, who was my friend, and I thought of Vashti, who might be waiting or might not, and I thought of all the brutal, battered, and savage land that lay between us, and me without even a gun.
If he waited for me somewhere up in those rooks, heffd have me. If he waited I was dead meat .
. . buzzard and coyote meat. B-ut I had an idea he was running hard, and I stayed on the trail.
We climbed … higher and higher.
Suddenly a rider showed. A lone man riding a mule, leading another with a pack. A prospector.
He drew up when he saw me, not liking it. And there was a reason why, for my face was blistered and broken, my hands were only half-healed, my clothes were torn, and a sight.
“Howdy,” he said. “Mister, wherever you been I Don’t wanna go.” “I’m comin’ out,” I said. “I made it.
There’s Indians back yonder though, and they’re wearing their paint.” “I seen ’em before,” he said. “I cut my teeth on Injuns.” “You got a gun to spare? I need a gun.” “Boy, by the look of you you need a bed for two weeks, and a bath every day of it. You’re riding death, boy. You should look at you from this side of your eyes.” “I need a gun. You passed a man up yonder with two horses, and my guns as well as his own.
At least, I believe he’s got them. You loan me a gun and I’ll send you twice the cost of it, wherever you are.” ‘I seen that man, boy, and you stay shut of him. That’s a mean man, too much for a boy like you. I seen him this time because I seen him a-comin”, and I knew who he was by the way he sets his horse. I cut out of the trail and when he seen my tracks he looked up to where I was, bedded down in the rocks, and I told him, Tony, you keep right on a-ridin’. I got you dead in my sights He kept on, and you know something? That wasn’t like him. It wasn’t like him a-tall.” “He’s riding scared,” I said.
“I ain’t got a gun to spare, and if I had it I wouldn’t lend it to a man who’s going to get himself killed. What’s your name, boy?” “Shell Tucker,” I said, ‘and I’ve followed some trail before this.
. . . Be seeing you. .
The gruila clung to the trail like a bound dog.
He was all I’d figured he was. He clung to that trail as if it was him Pony had tried to kill. We made our night camp at Cave Springs.
The Pah-minutes had given me a double handful of jerky and I chewed a piece for supper, and drank at the spring. I’d moved back from the spring among some rocks when I heard a horse coming.
It was a long, lean cowhand riding a sorrel gelding, and he drew up at the spring and started to get down, and then he saw my tracks.
He started to swing his horse, and I said, “Don’t be in such an all-fired hurry. I don’t even have a gun.” “Then stand quiet,” he said, cause I do have. You just stand easy until I look you over.” He sidled his horse around until he could get a good look at me. “You don’t look fit to do no harm,” he said. “What happened to you?” “Yoiallyd better ask that of a man you sighted down yonder with a led horse.
Have you got a spare gun you could lend me?
Anything that can shoot.” “No. I got only this six-shooter and my Winchester, and where I’m going I’m likely to need them both. What happened?” he asked again.
“Have you got some coffee? I have nothing but beef jerky some Indians gave me.” “I’ve got it, and I was just at to make it up,” he said.