Joe Beecher squatted in the dust beside the spot where Kennick had lit his fire the night before.
‘He’s taking no chances, Griff,’ Beecher said. ‘Waited until dark then headed out over to the badlands. He’s makin’ sure he ain’t goin’ to meet anyone.’
Griff swung down stiffly from his saddle. ‘Don’t worry, Joe, he’s goin’ to meet someone.’
Beecher rubbed his dirt-streaked face. ‘I could do with some shuteye ‘fore we head out there. Much more of this and I’m goin’ to wind up stiffer’n a plank.’
Anger glittered in Griff’s eyes, then faded as he admitted the sense in what Beecher proposed.
‘I guess a few hours’ rest’ll do no harm.’
He signaled Bo to tend the horses. While Beecher got a fire going, Griff laid out their cooking gear.
They ate in silence. Each man occupied by his own thoughts, his own reason for being here.
Griff took first watch. He didn’t expect any trouble, but there was no sense taking chances. Usually, out here a man’s first mistake was his last. Two hours later Beecher took over and Griff lay down in the shade of a rock. He drew his hat over his eyes and folded his arms across his chest. Give it another day or so and then they’d have Kennick just where they wanted him. That bastard was really going to squirm.
The further out they got, the more often Kennick kept twisting in his saddle to look over his shoulder. He saw nothing but the ground he’d just covered. Nevertheless he had a bad feeling, an inner hunch that warned, that told him that someone was on his back trail.
He reined in his horse as he topped a sandy rise. His trail lay dead ahead. The ground here was treacherous, and the horses made slow time. Kennick didn’t force them to hurry. Cripple a horse out here and you were in trouble. Out here was sand and dust and wind-eroded, crumbling rocks. The land was flat here, rolled in dizzy bumps there. It was dead, a bleached land of twisted grotesque formations. No two yards were alike. The only growing things were odd bald patches of ragged scrub oak and a few cactus. There wasn’t much else reaching for the hard blue sky, except the black fingers of a few rock formations.
Sliding from his saddle, Kennick walked around for a few minutes. He was hot and dirty and thirsty. Moving to the packhorse he removed one of the water bags and filled his hat. He went to each horse in turn, hearing their pleased whinnies as they shoved hot, dry muzzles into the water. Returning the large water bag, Kennick took a smaller canteen. He washed out his mouth then drank sparingly. Glancing up at Kicking Bear, he weighed the canteen in his hands, then moved to face the Indian.
‘You ready to drink now?’ he asked. He didn’t really expect an answer.
Kicking Bear lowered his eyes to Kennick’s face. Dust caked the Comanche’s broad face. His lips were dry and cracked. Kennick saw the throat muscles contract slightly. Kicking Bear leaned forward in the saddle and Kennick raised the canteen.
Then a loud, wild yell burst from Kicking Bear’s throat. At the same time, he kicked at his horse’s sides with his knees. Startled, all three horses jerked into motion, dragging each other down the soft sand slope.
Kennick was knocked flat on his back, the canteen slipping from his fingers, as Kicking Bear’s horse slammed against him. He managed to roll as he hit and shoved to his feet fast. The three horses were plunging wildly down the slope, slipping and sliding in the loose sand. Kicking Bear kept on yelling, bouncing about on his horse’s back in an attempt to keep the frightened animal moving.
Kennick ran down the slope, half blinded by the choking cloud of dust kicked up by the horses. He fell to his knees at the bottom, his hands reaching desperately for the lashing reins of his mount, as the three horses milled in tight confusion at the bottom of the slope. His face was lashed twice by the swinging reins before his fingers caught hold. He threw his full weight on them. The horse rolled its eyes and snapped its head up, almost jerking Kennick’s arms out of their sockets. Hanging on, Kennick waited his chance, then scrambled up into the saddle. Once there he was in a better position to sort out the mess.
Beside him, Kicking Bear was still yelling. The terrified horses would never quiet with all that din, Kennick decided. It had to stop. He drew his Colt and laid the barrel across Kicking Bear’s skull. The Comanche gave a startled grunt and lolled forward across his horse’s neck.
Kennick swiftly calmed the horses now. He dismounted and went slowly back up the slope for the canteen of water. Over half of it had gone into the sand. Kennick poured some into his hand and mopped his dry, aching face, dabbed at his throbbing sand-burned eyes. He swallowed a mouthful of water, then recapped the canteen and went back down to the horses and Kicking Bear.
He mounted up and headed out straightaway. Kicking Bear didn’t come around for ten minutes or more. Then he slowly straightened up, staring straight ahead.
‘Like I told you before,’ Kennick said. ‘You want it rough, okay. But keep it in mind that next time I might not be so careful as to how I stop you.’
The Comanche made no reply. His pride had been hurt and he was not going to allow the white any chance to gloat over his victory. Kicking Bear would concentrate on devising other means of escape. Let the white imagine he was master. Maybe he was now, but not when Kicking Bear was free. And he would escape. Of that there was no doubt. Kicking Bear was no ordinary Comanche. He was one of the chosen ones. Chosen by the Spirits to lead the Comanche nation to victory over the invading whites. He must not fail. If he did, the Comanche nation would soon cease to exist. He must escape before he was thrown into one of the white man’s stone prisons, a place where he would surely die.
Kennick shifted in his saddle. It was getting damned hot. Too hot. Out here the land threw back the sun’s rays and the whole area was one great oven bowl of shimmering heat. It was harsh, useless country, too barren to grow anything, no use for raising stock of any kind—unless there ever became a sudden need for snakes and lizards in vast numbers.
Now the horses’ hoofs clattered loudly as they hit a stretch of flat rock. The animals moved slowly, picking their way carefully. On this sort of surface, an iron-shod horse could slip easily and cause itself serious injury. Luckily, these horses were used to traveling in this kind of country and were able to adapt themselves accordingly.
If this hadn’t been so, if Kennick had been forced to guide the horses himself, his eyes on the ground, he might easily have missed seeing the woman.
At first, he thought it was a mirage shaped by the shimmering heat waves. Then he shaded his eyes and looked again. It was no trick of sun and sand. Some distance ahead, where the stretch of flat rock ended and the sand and dust began again, a human figure moved slowly his way. Kennick reined in. He slid his Winchester out of the saddle boot and levered a shot into the chamber.
Comanche?
It was the first thing that came to his mind, but he dismissed the idea quickly. That was no Comanche—or any Indian—up ahead. He fumbled one-handed for the field glasses strapped behind his saddle. Jerking them from the case he raised them to his eyes, leveled them on the weaving figure. He saw a blurred image and thumbed the focus wheel, bringing the figure into sudden, close detail.
‘My God!’ The words exploded from him.
It was a woman. An honest-to-God woman. Wearing a white blouse and a dark skirt. And she had long black hair. Kennick found himself noting these things carefully, as if they were very important to him. And maybe they were, he thought, to a man who hadn’t had much real contact with women for a long time. Loneliness did that to a man. But that wasn’t what concerned him now. What in hell was a woman doing out here? Here of all places? It was a puzzle, all right. And, he admitted to himself, one I could do without. He had enough trouble on his hands with Kicking Bear without adding to it.
Kennick sighed, resigned. He kneed his horse forward, his rifle in his hands, ready. That was purely a reflex action, in this country where preparing for the worst could mean the difference between being alive and being dead.
The woman seemed totally unaware of his presence. Even when he reined in only feet away, she continued to move forward. She moved wearily, her head hanging, arms dangling loosely at her sides. Dust layered her clothes and hair, and the white blouse was streaked with patches of sweat.
‘Ma’am,’ Kennick said.
The woman halted at the sound of his voice. For a moment, she made no move. Then her head slowly came up. She raised a hand to brush stray hair back from her face. Her eyes finally focused on Kennick. Her smooth forehead wrinkled as she studied his face. She opened her mouth to speak, then shook her head and looked hard at him again. After that, she seemed convinced that he was real and not a mirage.
She spoke then, her voice surprisingly clear and strong. ‘Hello, I’m Jeannie Bahlin,’ she said.
And then her knees bent and she sprawled on her face in the dirt at the feet of Kennick’s horse.