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  “Concho!” the man yelled, as the Negro took a step toward the shelter of a horse. “Stand hitched.”

  Concho froze.

  “This is Redfield,” the voice went on. “You know I can shoot.”

  “Redfield?” Ramsey whispered.

  “One of Sheep Kelly’s men,” Concho said bitterly. “God damn!”

  “Now,” Redfield called. “Both of you. Throw them side arms down, easy. You’re both big bastards, but this thing throws plenty of lead to cut you down to size.” He gave that mocking laugh again.

  “Awright, Redfield,” Concho called back. “Hold yo’ fire.” And, with fingers carefully spread, he pulled the Colt from his pants and tossed it aside.

  “You, too, Big Ugly,” Redfield called.

  Ramsey looked at Nora. She lay sprawled on the ground; her face was a strange color, chalk-white beneath its tan. She was, he realized, terrified. Ramsey grunted a curse, eased down the hammer on the Colt, and dropped it in the sand.

  “Better,” said Redfield, and now he yelled even louder. “Okay, boys, I got the drop!”

  Immediately, the sound of horses became louder and open. As Ramsey cautiously turned his head, two riders came around the canyon bend, the one in the rear leading a saddled horse. Ramsey sucked in a quick breath, recognizing the mounts as Morgans from his own herd.

  The rider in the forefront swung down and passed his reins up to the man with the led horse. He was squat and beardy, and the straw skimmer he wore looked strange and out of place above his dust-covered face and his range clothes. Drawing a Colt .45 automatic from an army holster at his side, he came forward, but he stopped well clear of Concho.

  A gap-toothed grin split his dusty beard. “Well, howdy, Concho. Miz Stewart. It sure is good to see y’all alive and well.” His eyes swung to Ramsey. “And you—? I judge from your horses that it was your place we called on t’other night. Damn nice of you to bring the ones we missed in here to us.”

  Nora Stewart got to her feet. “What do you want with us, Lyman?”

  Lyman bowed slightly and tipped his hat. “Well, ma’am, we seen where them people from up north burned your ranch and what they did to pore ole Hank. But we couldn’t find no trace of you and Concho, so Sheep sent us out to look fer you.”

  “You go back and tell Sheep we’re all right,” she said commandingly.

  Lyman’s grin widened. “’Fraid that wouldn’t satisfy him. He give us orders to find you and bring you in. Concho, too, if he wants to come. And you know how Sheep is about orders. We wouldn’t dare disobey ’em.”

  Concho, oblivious to the guns, took a step forward. “You ain’t takin’ nobody!” he snarled. “Sheep Kelly ain’t puttin’ his dirty hands on her!”

  Lyman half-turned, raising the Colt, all semblance of good humor wiped from his face. “Listen, nigger, any more talk like that, I’ll drop you where you stand. I don’t like niggers that act around a white woman the way you do, nohow.”

  “You shut your damned mouth!” Concho roared, and suddenly he was an animal crouched to spring.

  Nora Stewart screamed, a high, shattering sound that echoed in the canyon. Lyman pulled the automatic’s trigger; as Concho launched himself, the gun thundered twice; Concho was snapped around by the impact of the bullets and fell sprawling in the sand. “Concho!” Nora screamed again and started toward him, but Lyman seized her wrist, jerked her around. She raked at him with clawed fingers, and blood welled from his face. “Hold it!” Redfield bellowed from above, as Ramsey was about to charge, and the Springfield went off, spraying sand in front of Ramsey. The other man had sprung down off the horse by then; he seized Nora from behind and pinioned her arms. But she did not stop fighting; like a hellion, she spat and kicked ferociously; then Lyman, rubbing his bleeding face, stepped forward. His right hand moved, fist clubbed; her head snapped back and she went limp, knees buckling. Lyman let out a rasping breath and rubbed his face again. “Damn, what a panther!” he snapped. “Put her on a horse and tie her hands to th’ horn.”

  The other man looked at Ramsey. “What about this joker?”

  Lyman turned to face Ramsey. “Yeah, boy, what about you? Anybody else with you?”

  Ramsey didn’t answer. Lyman stepped forward, the automatic tilted to rake his face with the sight. “You by yourself?”

  “Bound to be,” Redfield called down. “When I got up here, I checked. Nobody in sight anywhere. No dust, no sign.”

  “We’ll let him answer,” Lyman snapped. “Well? You better talk when I ask you something.”

  Ramsey looked into the twisted, beardy face. “I’m alone,” he said tersely.

  Lyman’s mouth curled. “And you come to git your horses back. All by yourself. Where’d you meet up with Concho and the woman?”

  “Place called Double Springs,” Ramsey said. “This morning.”

  “And they threw in with you?”

  “They had to,” Ramsey said. “I had the horses and the gear.”

  “Well, you ain’t got ’em any longer,” Lyman said. “We can use these Morgans and your goods, too. That includes the water.” He unhooked a canteen from Gibson Girl’s saddle and threw it to the ground at Ramsey’s feet. “This much we leave you. If you’re a good walker, you jest might make it back to North Wells. But I wouldn’t wanta bet money on it.”

  “Whyn’t you go ahead and plug ’im?” Redfield called down. “Or you want me to do it?”

  Lyman flipped a hand. “Nope. Sheep wouldn’t like it. The nigger don’t make no difference, but killin’ one of them North Wells ranchers is somethin’ else. That might be just what it’d take to git the Army down in here. Let ’im walk out; if he makes it, fine. If he don’t, nobody can pin it on us; it was the desert.”

  Redfield spat all the way down into the canyon. “You’re gittin’ so you sound jest like Sheep.”

  “Sheep uses his head. And you know his orders—no unnecessary killin’.” Lyman grinned. “By the way, hombre—thanks for flashin’ signals to us with them field glasses of yours. Sun on the lenses shines a long way off, and we never woulda found you if it hadn’t been for that.” He backed to his horse and then swung up. “Reddy, you kin come down, now. We got to ride.” Nora Stewart was a limp bundle in Gibson Girl’s saddle, and the other man steadied her. Lyman gathered all of Ramsey’s animals into a string. “Adios, hombre!” His voice was mocking. “Bueno suerte!” Then, in darkness, the cavalcade moved out of the canyon, and except for the body of Concho, Ramsey was alone.

  He stood motionless, until the sound of hooves on rock had faded. Then the paralysis that held him broke, and he began to curse his own stupidity. If only he’d shielded the lenses of the binoculars ...

  But the damage was done, now, completely, beyond repair. His horses were gone forever. But somehow that didn’t matter. What mattered was that Nora Stewart was gone, too, that she—

  Savagely, he made himself stop thinking. He went to Concho and wrestled the sprawled body over. The front of the Negro’s shirt was a sticky mess of blood and sand. Ramsey touched it and drew his hand away. Then he tensed.

  He put his hand back. Concho’s body was still very warm. And as Ramsey groped toward the wound, from Concho’s clenched teeth came a long, rasping breath. Sam Ramsey stared down at the Negro and shook his head. Though he did not know whether to be relieved, or appalled at the extra burden this laid upon him, at least for now Concho still lived.

  Chapter Seven

  Sunlight awakened Sam Ramsey.

  He sat up, blinking, cold, cramped, disoriented. Rubbing beardy face and gritty eyes, he could not remember for a moment where he was or what had happened. Then recollection came to him, bitterly, and he got stiffly to his feet and looked down at Concho, who was snoring raspingly, his skin curiously ashen. The bandage Ramsey had made from his undershirt was blood-soaked, but the blood was dried; apparently the bleeding had stopped.

  Last night, in darkness, he had not been able to tell how badly Concho was hit. But they had left him
matches and he had kindled a blaze; in its light, he cut away the sandy mess of the shirt. What was revealed was a bloody mass of chopped meat, and it took careful probing to ascertain what had happened.

  Concho had been lucky. The heavy slug, adopted only a few years before by the Army because a .38 would not stop a jurimentado Moro, had slammed into Concho’s flank, shattered a rib—there were bone splinters in the wound—and, glancing, had keyholed out, making a terrible exit hole. The second shot, almost instantaneous with the first, had almost missed; it had only chopped up more of the flesh on Concho’s flank. Apparently no vital organs had been damaged; but shock and loss of blood had kept Concho out all night.

  There had been nothing Ramsey could do for him but make a huge poultice of creosote leaves moistened with a little of his precious water and strap it in place with his undershirt.

  Still, barring infection, the chances were good that Concho would not die of his wounds.

  Which, Ramsey had reflected last night, did not make things a bit easier for him now. There was no food and not enough water for him to remain here in the canyon with Concho even a single night, if he were to survive. It was fifteen miles back to the springs where they had met yesterday, and it was either make that march tonight or risk not making it at all.

  For the logistics of the problem were simple. There was still water in his body and perhaps a quart and a half in the gallon canteen. If he started now, he would be in fairly good shape when he reached the springs. If he did not, it would be tomorrow night before he could travel, for there was no hope of making it in the furnace-like heat of day. And by tomorrow night, his body would be dehydrated and his supply of water reduced; by then, he probably could not make the springs at all.

  Goddammit, he thought, this is a man who has already tried to kill me once. If the situation was reversed, he wouldn’t think twice about leaving me and saving himself. There ain’t enough water to save him anyway; he’s lost too much blood and it would take all there is in this canteen and more to replace it. I don’t owe him anything—why let him drag me down with him?

  The more he thought about it, the more plainly the odds were written. If he went ahead now, he could survive. If he waited, they both were dead. Besides, he owed it to Nora Stewart to make the try. If he could reach North Wells, he vowed savagely, he’d take the first train to El Paso, and if the army commandant there wouldn’t mount an expedition against Sheep Kelly, he’d strangle the soldier with his bare hands ...

  “Yes, by God!” he had said aloud, in final resolve; and then he sprang to his feet and seized the canteen and slung it over his shoulder. Moving cautiously in the almost total darkness beyond the range of the fire, he had started towards the northern outlet of the canyon. Fifty feet he made, before he halted.

  There was no reason for him to stop. Behind him, the fire was blazing with the fresh wood he’d piled on it; Concho lay beside it, inert and silent. Ramsey stood there a moment, said, “Hell,” and moved on.

  But not far. Once more he halted, turned, and glanced back at the circle of firelight. Then he looked forward. Another ten paces and he would be around a corner of the canyon wall. Then he would be able to see neither the fire nor Concho. Hitching at the canteen decisively, he started again.

  This time, he made it around that corner. Now the way lay clear before him; he could see where the canyon widened. Stars rode the sky in an incredible profusion of constellations. Soon the sliver of moon would come up. There would not be much light, but there would be enough to walk by. He strode on.

  He reached the end of the canyon. Now, ahead of him, the desert floor lay open. The walking would be easier; following their backtrail, he calculated that he could make the springs in seven hours, well before sunrise. He could fill the canteen there—with careful nursing, a gallon of water should carry him through two more nights’ march, thirty, forty miles, if his feet did not give out in these high-heeled boots. That would put him well within ranching country and range of help.

  It was a delicate equation, and it would have to balance exactly, everything would have to go just right, but he could make it. All he had to do was keep going and he would live. Of course, by tomorrow night Concho would be dead. But that couldn’t be helped. Hell, he thought, if the bullet had hit only an inch or two farther to the left, the Negro would have been killed immediately anyhow. He was not Concho’s murderer; Lyman was. Ramsey hitched at the canteen and began to walk again. He made a hundred feet, and then he said an obscenity, loudly and bitterly, for it was not going to work, and he knew it. It was just not going to work.

  And he turned around, still cursing himself for a fool, and made his way once more into the canyon. When he reached the place where Concho lay, the Negro had not moved and the fire had burned down to coals.

  Through the night, Ramsey sat beside the black man. He sat there and smoked too much of his remaining tobacco and wasted too much water sponging off the sweaty, contorted face of Concho. He was careful not to think any more.

  Not too long before dawn, Concho began to toss and roll; and then he began to mumble, the profane, disconnected babble of delirium. But as it went on and on, it began to form a pattern; Ramsey began to see the outline of a hard, combative, desperate life. Man, you say that again, I cut your throat ... Mama? Mama? Where you gone, Mama? Listen, boys, the lieutenant say we got to go up yonder after that there blockhouse ... Set that Gatlin gun up over here, we kin sweep ever thing down yonder, them Mescans come again ... He didn’t hurt me, I take him next round sure ...

  There was a lot of that, but it was not what bothered Ramsey. What brought him upright, listening carefully, was the way Nora’s name suddenly began to weave in and out of Concho’s delirium.

  Now you look here, Miss Annie. That girl different from these other sluts in this house ... Nora, we got to git you outa here ... Stewart, you don’t take her without you take me. Ain’t no man have her without I watch him close ... You don’t treat her good, I’ll be on hand to kill you ... Run, Nora, run ... Don’t worry, honey, I’ll see they git what’s comin’ to ’em ... No, I don’t dare. Oh, God, I want to, but I don’t dare ... Noracita. My little Noracita ...

  Concho’s purplish lips writhed back from yellow teeth; his big body twisted, arched as if in agony.

  “Oh, God, why you make her white and me black?”

  Then he sank down, motionless, panting.

  Ramsey got up and put more wood on the fire.

  But after that, Concho was still. Presently Ramsey stretched out and tried to sleep, but, tired as he was, it was a long time before he sank into unconsciousness.

  Now, satisfied that the bleeding had stopped, Ramsey poured a few drops of water onto his neckerchief and mopped sand and sweat from Concho’s face. He was startled when the eyes opened wide and looked at him blankly, then focused and became rational.

  Suddenly Concho tried to rise. “Nora!” he yelled. “Where Nora?”

  Ramsey pushed him back. “Lyman took her with him to Sheep Kelly.”

  “We got to—” Concho forced himself up on his elbows, groaned, and dropped back. “Remember now,” he husked. “How bad I hit?”

  “Bad enough,” Ramsey said. He told Concho what his wounds were.

  Concho lay panting, staring at the sky. Then he mumbled, “I had worse, it never stopped me. Git th’ horses, we got to go after her.”

  “They took the horses,” Ramsey said flatly. “They took all the gear. We got nothing but a quart of water.”

  “And how much time ... ? How much start they got?”

  “A whole night,” Ramsey said.

  “A night? And you let me lay here—? We oughta ... naw. Naw, you right. Wasn’t nothin’ you could do.” He let out a rasping breath. Then he said, “I’m all right now. We got to start out after ’em. Don’t try to stop me, I’m gittin’ up.”

  Ramsey said, bluntly: “You start the bleedin’ again, you’re a dead man. We ain’t got enough water to replace what you already lost.”

/>   Concho’s bloodshot eyes glared at him. “Man, ain’t you got no sense? Sheep Kelly’s got that woman! And you want me to lay here?”

  Ramsey said, “Suit yourself.” He backed away.

  Concho began to struggle to his feet. His black face went gray with agony as he pushed his torso up into a sitting position. He sucked in his lower lip and bit it, and Ramsey could hear the loud rasp of his breathing. Ramsey watched the bandage closely, but there was no fresh blood so far.

  Sitting, Concho paused for breath and strength. Then he uttered an explosive curse of self-disgust and in one mighty effort somehow was on his feet. He stood there panting and swaying and leaned against the canyon wall.

  “God,” he said, “sho am dizzy.”

  Ramsey held out the canteen. “You’d better take a drink.”

  Concho stared at it. “Only a quart, you say?”

  “Maybe less.”

  Concho’s tongue licked his lips. Then he said, “Later. I don’t need no water now.” He rubbed his face with the palm of a hand, mopping away the oily sweat his efforts had brought to it. Still there was no fresh, red stain on his bandage. “We ain’t got no time to lose,” he said. “We got to start out after her.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” Ramsey said. “You’re in no shape to go anywhere. We’ll wait ’til night; then, if you can walk at all, we’ll head back for Double Springs. We’ll stay there until you’re well enough to go on.”

  “No,” Concho snapped. What flared in his eyes as he looked at Ramsey could have been fever-glow or a kind of insanity, or both. “Man, you don’t know that Sheep Kelly. He the lowest of the low—I seen Mex girls he had. When it come to women, he just like a damn animal, worse ... You think I’m gonna leave Nora—” He hitched himself up, drew in a deep breath, and winced at the pain of it. “Come on. We gotta go.”

  The sun was high now, clear of the canyon walls. Ramsey gestured toward its round, white dazzle. “With a quart of water ... in that? And you shot up?”