The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

out—ain’t nobody can say Amos Lutterfield was here.”
    “Nobody but us,” Shannon said coldly.
    “Lutterfield!”
    Even Drew’s head came around at that. The moonlight was silver bright on the barrel of the Colt in Kitchell’s grasp. “Sergeant, suppose you take precautions to insure the continued company of this man. I don’t intend, Lutterfield, to let you curry favor by pointing out our trail to the army. I’d answer your proposed desertion as it deserves—with a bullet—but a body on our trail would provide an excellent signpost for any pursuers.”
    The rope which had been coiled on Wayne’s saddle swung out in a perfect loop and tightened about Lutterfield, pinning his arms to his sides. His protests and roars of anger went unheeded and he rode on as much a prisoner as Drew.
    “Move out.” Kitchell motioned with the Colt. “Those two peaks ahead—according to Benito, the cut we want is between them. Across that we’re free. The army can’t follow us into Mexico.”
    But Kitchell still kept to a cautious pace. The risk of losing a mount was one he dared not run. Drew debated the idea of booting his own horse from their line of march and trying to ride for it. He need only hide out and wait for the troopers to pick him up. If he had had hands free and been able to move in the saddle to dodge bullets, he might have tried it.
    The night wore on and Drew was driven to admiring the outlaws’ nerve. Kitchell did not hurry; in fact he followed the old cavalry custom of resting mounts at regular intervals, seeing that each of the weary horses had nostrils and mouth wiped out with a dampened cloth. At the third halt he allowed them a drink of water before a smaller portion was given the men. Whatever else the outlaw might be, he was an experienced field commander.
    They had the peaks looming above them when Benito gave a gurgling gasp and stiffened, tall in the saddle, before he looped into a limp, dangling bundle of a man. Kitchell called a halt. He dismounted to examine the Mexican before he beckoned to Wayne.
    “He’s dead. We’ll need his horse. Put him down behind those rocks over there, Sergeant.”
    “You know where we’re goin’, suh?” Shannon asked.
    “Enough to get us across the border. We can take cover there, make some other arrangements. Benito’s patrón would not welcome us with empty pockets. Hurry, Sergeant!”
    “I only got two hands, suh.” Wayne had freed the body of the Mexican but was having trouble dragging it into the appointed hiding place.
    “You help him, Shannon. We have no time to waste.”
    “What about him?” Shannon’s thumb indicated Drew.
    “I don’t see how he can get away. Hurry up!”
    Johnny dismounted with visible reluctance, but not before he blasted Drew’s hopes by looping the reins of the captive’s horse around his own saddle horn. And in addition Kitchell stood there with drawn gun. They had disposed of the body and Johnny was back when a sudden command boomed out of the air.
    “Freeze!”
    Shannon leaped, putting his horse between him and the open. He had the reins of Drew’s mount in his hand. Kitchell went into a half crouch, and was startled into snapping a shot in the general direction of the voice.
    Drew sat statue still. It was only too easy in this tricky light, bright though the moon was, to seem one of the men those ahead were hunting. He had no desire to stop a bullet now. But Johnny had ideas of his own. Under his direction Drew’s horse broke to the left. There were shots and Drew flattened himself as best he could on the saddle horn,but not before he saw Kitchell spin around in a crazy dance and fall.
    “All right, all right!” Shannon’s voice was broken, ragged, almost as if he were sobbing. “You ain’t got me yet—not by a sight, you ain’t!” A knife flashed, cutting the ties which kept Drew’s left boot to the stirrup. The Kentuckian was dragged down and held while the knife sliced again. Two more shots—then silence. Drew lay face to earth. The fall from the saddle had brought him down on his injured side, and he was in too great pain to take much interest in his surroundings.
    Then he was dragged, pulled over on his back.
    “I got Drew Rennie here.” The call was one of desperation. “Yeah, hear that? Drew Rennie—th’ Old Man’s son.… I read them letters he had—it’s th’ truth! You come t’ take me an’ he gits a knife clean across his throat. I want me a hoss, water, an’ an open