The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

battle, and he had seen fearsome scars ridging the hides of two of the Range studs. But actually witnessing such a battle shook him. Teeth…hoofs…blood on Shiloh’s shoulders and flanks…a strip of flesh dangling.… But Drew saw that the Pinto was marked, too.
    The wild horse was trying for a final throat grip, and
    Shiloh was on the defensive, running, wheeling to kick, once getting home on the Pinto’s ribs so that the spotted horse squealed with pain. Shiloh had a torn ear and a gash open on his neck. The two battlers twisted and turned in a mad fury of movement.
    Drew edged on, Colt ready. But to fire now was impossible.
    The Pinto’s hoofs crashed against the saddle and Shiloh gave ground. With a scream of triumph the wild one’s head snaked out, teeth ready to set on the larger horse’s throat. Hopelessly, Drew shot—it was all he could do.
    The white-and-red head tossed. Shiloh had wrenched back. The Pinto drove against the gray and crashed down. It lay kicking as the larger horse hit out with forefeet, bringing them heavily down on the Pinto. The Pinto let out a cry of rage and pain that seemed to startle even Shiloh. The gray backed away from his writhing enemy and stood shivering, his head outstretched, nostrils distended. Drew fired for the second time and the helpless kicking was stilled.
    Shiloh moved, limping. Blood matted with dust stained his coat, making him almost as red and white as the Range stud. Drew holstered the Colt and went to his horse, crooning softly as he caught one of the chewed and broken reins.
    He was trying to examine what seemed to him terrible wounds, when Shiloh started neighing. The Kentuckian looked back. Anse and Rennie, with Teodoro and Chino bringing up the rear, were coming. The young mustanger went to look down at the Pinto.
    “He is dead.” That was an observation rather than a question. Teodoro knelt in the dust, drew his knife and cut loose strands of the long mane hair.
    “I shot him.” Drew was more intent on Shiloh’s wounds. “He was killin’ Shiloh.”
    He pushed back the thought that although his horse was still on its feet, the Pinto might have killed him, after all. Except for horses ripped by shellfire in battle, Drew had never seen any wounds such as these. He was deadly afraid that those two bullets had not really saved the stud.
    “Let’s have a look, Chino, bring my saddlebags!” Hunt Rennie was beside Drew. “Can you lead him back to the water hole?” he asked. “See if he’ll walk.”
    Somehow they did it—Drew and Anse, Rennie and Teodoro. They coaxed, led, supported Shiloh when they could, and brought him to the water hole. And then they worked to stop the weakening flow of blood. Drew kept the young horse quiet while Rennie stitched up the worst of the tears.
    “He’ll do.” Rennie washed his hands. “Can’t move him for some time, though. He must have given a good account of himself meeting that murderer for the first time. Lucky…”
    “Suh—” Drew found it difficult to face Rennie. As his anxiety over the horse’s condition had faded, he had had time to think of something beyond his own affairs. “I want to say thanks.” He got that out in a rush before he added the admission he must make: “I spoiled your plan to take Kitchell.”
    Rennie’s dark eyes held his as they had always been able to do. Then Drew had the odd sensation that the two of them were all alone in a place not bound by space or time.
    “Don’t say you’re sorry. If you did, I wouldn’t believe you. You made the move you had to. If it had been Oro out there—I would have done the same.”
    Drew responded to that impulsively. “You’re generous, suh.”
    His father’s black brows drew together in a slight frown. “Generous? No, that’s the truth. As for losing Kitchell—we may not have. Those who got away have Greyfeather, Nye, and others on their trail. And I do not think they will find such hunters easy to fool. Also, we have a prisoner.…”
    Don Cazar’s acceptance of their failure was so placid that Drew was led to make a wild guess.
    “Not Kitchell himself!”
    Rennie smiled. “No, we weren’t that lucky— you must have had the lion’s share of that commodity here today. We have a Mexican, name unknown. He was shot down while trying to pick up the rider Shiloh got rid of—who just might have been Kitchell. But this prisoner may be moved to tell us about the three who got away. If these wind storms keep up, they could