Luke Kennick watched the dust of the patrol until it finally vanished. When it did, he suddenly felt cut off from the world, alone and friendless. He didn’t dwell on the thought, though. Out here that kind of thinking could lead to a man putting a gun to his head and pulling the trigger.
He got rid of his uniform and put on his own clothes, and felt that much better. He pulled his gun belt from his saddlebag and buckled it on, tying down the holster to his thigh. Then he sat down and stripped down his Colt, cleaned and checked it, and then reassembled it. He did the same thing with his .44-40 Winchester. He also checked all his gear, making certain the filled canvas water bags were strapped tight on the packhorse. Finally satisfied, he sat down again, rolled and lit a smoke, and settled back to wait for dark. He ignored Kicking Bear’s hard, unwavering stare. He told himself that he was going to have to get used to it, and he might as well start now.
Off to the west, three men rode beneath the high sun.
They didn’t hurry their horses. They didn’t need to. Their eyes focused on the empty land ahead. Out there, somewhere, was their quarry. And the three knew there was no need to hurry. The man they were after was alone, and they had all the time in the world to do what they wanted. There was no one to stop them.
‘Hold up a minute!’
Joe Beecher reined in and twisted in the saddle. A couple of yards back, Griff McBride stood beside his horse, tightening the cinch. Beecher swung down to the ground, glad of the chance to rest up. The pain in his groin had returned, brought on by the long hours in the saddle. Kennick had hurt him bad in the fight at the sutler’s, and Beecher was suffering.
‘Christ, I could do with some shade,’ he muttered crossly. He reached for one of his canteens, then gingerly squatted on his heels in the thin shadow cast by his horse.
‘Plenty of chance for that when we catch up with Kennick,’ Griff told him. He led his mount up to Beecher’s and squatted near him. Bo McBride climbed awkwardly down from his horse and joined them. He didn’t speak, because his face was swollen badly from Kennick’s knee-smash. The blow had broken Bo’s nose and knocked out three teeth, and left his lips badly cut. Heat and sweat and dust made the raw flesh excruciatingly sore.
Griff’s only real hurt had been to his pride. He’d had no idea when he’d braced Kennick that it would turn out the way it had. It hadn’t done his morale any good, only fed his hate and need for vengeance.
‘We’ll trail him one more day,’ Griff said. ‘Give him a chance to get right out into the badlands. Then we’ll move in and take him.’
Beecher nodded. He asked, ‘What we goin’ to do with the Injun?’
‘Kicking Bear?’ Griff smiled. ‘Why, we’ll kill him too. Funny thing, I never realized before, that buck is just as much to blame for Hal’s death as Kennick. We’ll finish ’em together. See who quits first’
Beecher swilled down more water.
‘Go easy, Joe. We may not get much more out here,’ Griff warned.
The breed’s eyes flashed angrily. ‘So you say. Lay off me, Griff, I ain’t feelin’ too bright.’
‘Sure kid.’
Griff pushed to his feet and looked around. Nothing moved in the empty miles that lay ahead. There was only the earth and above the sky, vast and brooding, with a cruel sun.
A hot, empty land, a wasteland, though there were those who saw in it a savage beauty. But Griff McBride was not one of them. Let the damned Indians keep it, he thought, as he mounted up. All I want is Luke Kennick. Once I’m settled with him, I’m getting out. I’ve had my gutful of Texas.
He waited for the others to mount up then led out. One thing though, he was thinking, he would always be grateful to Texas for producing soldiers who like to talk over a bottle of cheap whisky. If he hadn’t gotten the story out of the corporal, he’d still be back at the fort wondering where Kennick had got to. But you didn’t slip away fast enough for Griff McBride. No sir, Griff McBride was no man’s fool. Least ways, not full-time.
He led the way across the flat, blistering land, heading for a showdown.
Luke Kennick made himself a meal of beans and bacon, washing it down with plenty of coffee. He made the most of that meal, because it was going to be a case of eating when he could from now on.
By the time he’d cleaned his cooking gear and put it away, it was dark.
He went over to Kicking Bear. ‘We’re moving out now,’ he said. ‘Understand this from the start. When you get on that horse you behave, or I get rough. I mean it. Any fancy stunts and I’ll bend a gun barrel over your head. Do you hear me?’
The Comanche raised his eyes. ‘I hear you, Kennick. I see you, and I will kill you,’ he said harshly.
Kennick untied the Indian’s feet and hauled him upright. ‘You can ride on your butt, or belly-down. My job is to get you to the Brazos alive. I don’t think anyone’ll gripe, if you’re a mite messed up when we arrive. Understand?’
For a moment it seemed as though Kicking Bear was going to reply. But he only gave a tight-lipped sneer. Then he spat in Kennick’s face for the second time since leaving Fort Cameron.
Kennick wiped his hand across his face. His jaw muscles tightened. Then his hand swept away from his face and slashed hard across Kicking Bear’s mouth. The Comanche, taken by surprise, tumbled backward. Blood dribbled from a cut lip.
‘Do that again and I’ll hit you a hell of a lot harder,’ Kennick said. ‘And I’ll keep it up until you decide to call it quits.’
Kicking Bear stumbled forward, his face dark with anger, his eyes like chips of black marble.
‘Now, Kennick, you must surely die!’
Kennick cut him off with: ‘Mount up!’
As he had refused food and water, so Kicking Bear of the Comanche refused any help to get on his horse. Kennick stepped up and tied the Indian’s feet to the stirrup irons again.
Mounting himself, he headed his horse away from the mesa, the reins of the two other horses tied to his saddle-horn. Once clear of the mesa, he got his bearings quickly and swung northeast into the darkness, heading deep into the badlands.