The saddles were on and Whit Hardy leaned over his horse at his brother, who sat watching the Apache who watched them.
‘Ready, Tom,’ he reluctantly said. He might have a hangover straight from hell itself but he was sober enough to be very worried at what might happen in the next few minutes of their futile lives. He knew that his sibling was correct — he could not hit the side of a barn with his gun, and had only ever been useful to Dan at firing in the air outside banks they were robbing, in an action known as ‘clearing the streets’. If Whit had to shoot at Indians charging at them, it was likely that Tom was going to get hit before the warriors.
Tom Hardy slowly rose to his feet, keeping the rifle close to his chest, as he moved backward toward the saddled mounts.
Whit mounted, staying behind the bushes to conceal his actions as his elder brother cautiously took hold of the reins in his free hand. It was just as he lifted his leg and slid his pointed boot into the stirrup that the Indians suddenly became animated and very, very loud.
The small band of Apache were charging through the river toward them, screaming at the top of their high-pitched voices. It was a sound that could freeze the blood of any normal man, and both the Hardy brothers were very normal.
Somehow, Tom managed to get his leg over the horse and get into the saddle.
He pulled the horse’s neck around as far as it would go and started, before aiming at the long trail that edged the river down toward Mexico.
Sinking their spurs into their horses’ flesh, they rode away from their camp.
The two riders thundered along the sandy embankment as the Apache finally got across the wide river, and began giving chase to them.
A shot passed over Tom Hardy’s Stetson as he kept pace with his younger brother in their desperate gallop along the trail.
‘They got rifles, Tom!’ Whit yelled, as another shot whistled past them. ‘I told you they had rifles!’
‘Guess so,’ Tom Hardy agreed as he tried to give his horse its head as well as slide his Winchester back into its sheath.
The warriors were chasing the pair at top speed along the rough terrain and letting rip with their rifles. For them to ride and shoot was something they learned as children, whereas the Hardy brothers had difficulty in doing one thing at a time, let alone two.
For them, to ride and stay in the saddle was an achievement to brag about. They had been chased by the odd posse before, but never by Indians.
Forging their way through a wall of tall bushes that strayed in front of them, the two brothers managed to stay in their saddles. More shots filled the air, and were closer than either man liked.
It seemed that they would have to ride to the far-off ocean before these Indians would quit.
Blood filled the air as they continued to spur their galloping mounts into finding speed that neither animal knew it possessed.
The chase went on for over two miles along the river’s edge, before the young Apache braves pulled their ponies to a halt and then started laughing at the fleeing pair of white men. They had had their fun, and returned to the campsite to see what the men had discarded in their hasty departure.
For Whit and Tom Hardy it would be another few miles before they figured that their pursuers were no longer behind them. Then another mile or so before they felt confident enough to slow up and eventually stop.
Then another hour or so before they realized that they were looking at the tracks of Iron Eyes’ unshod pony, plus a wagon.
The two men drank their fill of the river before setting off after the man who had killed their brother Dan. The wagon tracks were a confusion to the two men, but neither bothered themselves about it.
They were just thankful that they had saved their scalps and one full bottle of tequila.