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Then he was pulled backward by a jerk out of nowhere, and he fell under a brown, mostly bare body which pinned him firmly to the ground. Drew struggled wildly but he could not break the grip which held him down. He was looking up into the face of Greyfeather, and none of his writhing made any impression on the Pima’s hold.
"Señores, that is already decided," Teodoro said quietly. Drew looked up. Where had they come from, those four? Out of the rocks themselves? He only knew that now they were there, rifles over their forearms, ready to swing sights on the three below. His heart gave a lurch—Apaches? And then on the far right he recognized Greyfeather, Rennie’s chief scout.
Old Man is always on lookout for a good rider. Soon as we see how Johnny’s doin’, we’ll head south. I already sent Greyfeather back to tell the Old Man th’ kid’s hurt an’ up here. Reese, what’d you think ’bout Bayliss? That he’ll try to take over runnin’ the town?" "Might just," the gambler replied. "Could he do it?" "I hardly think so. What he’s really out for is Hunt’s hide.
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.
At first sight there was no evidence of men lying in wait, but from the heights over which the Pimas brought their charges, Drew caught glimpses of men crouched behind sheltering rocks. The bulk of the Range posse was gathered in a hollow on the south side of the pass and it was there that Greyfeather delivered his catch. Don Cazar surveyed them almost without interest.
And it was Greyfeather who pointed to them and to the way ahead, who gave an emphatic wave of the hand which was an order. Leading their horses, they obeyed, the Pimas falling in behind. The back-door route to the pass was a rough one. They had to leave the horses and climb, two of the Pimas always in sight behind, guns ready. Anse sighed. "Seems like we have lots of luck—all of it plain bad.
Put Greyfeather an’ his Pimas on ’em an’ then leg it till your belly’s near meetin’ your backbone an’ you is all one big tired ache. Iffen you kin drink sand an’ keep on footin’ it over red-hot rocks when you is nigh t’ a bag o’ bones, then maybe—jus’ maybe—you kin jump an Apache.
"I’ll ask around. Have any trouble comin’ up?" "No. Greyfeather and Runnin’ Fox were scoutin’ for us." "Stage was jumped yesterday on th’ Sonora road," Callie volunteered. "One men got him a bullet in th’ shoulder, but they got away clean. It was Kitchell, th’ driver thought. Captain Bayliss took out a patrol right away. You plannin’ on goin’ back with Kitchell out?"
The light was hardly brighter than moonlight but he could make out Hunt Rennie, sitting cross-legged, rifle to hand, while Chino Herrera squatted on his heels before him. Chino had not been with them when they left the pass. And there was Greyfeather, too. Their party had had reinforcements. Drew pushed away the blanket and sat up, realizing he was stiff with cold.
There was only one thing—he was still alive, and as long as a man lived he had hope. Nye and Greyfeather had trailed this bunch from the water hole. Perhaps the wind and sand storms had muddled the tracks, but Drew still had faith in the Pima. And Rennie’s party had followed with the knowledge of the Mexican’s bolt hole to the south.
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