didnât even need the glass. Today the horses were south of the village, between two hills that sloped to the river, where the critters could get to water. They were loose-herded now and would be close-herded at night. Every week or so theyâd be moved because the desert grass was so scanty.
The Mojaves kept the horses well guarded because they were enemies of the Yuma tribe, which lived downstream at the mouth of the Gila River.
Right now, Sam thought, you boys got your eyes on the wrong enemy.
He hadnât been worried about finding the horses, just his rifle. There were four or five hundred Mojave warriors. Theyâd stolen a bakerâs dozen rifles, but just one Celt. How would Sam ever find it?
Now he was grinning because the problem had just solved itself.
The Mojaves must be big on show.
Two guards were keeping an eye on the horses today, one tall and skinny like a reed, the other stocky, with a limp. And for no earthly reason those guards were carrying rifles. It made no sense. They wore no shot pouches, no powder horns. Which meant they couldnât actually fire the rifles. Probably they hadnât even figured out how yet. Still, they carried the weapons, probably proud of their symbols of thunder-striking.
Sam didnât recognize one rifle, might be anyoneâs. The other one was The Celt, and it was in the hands of the reedy fellow. That gave Sam a tingle.
He watched Paladin. Her white coat and black markings gleamed in the strong sunlight, black cap around the ears, black shield on the chest, and black mane and tail. âHello, gorgeous,â Sam whispered.
He watched her move around, grazing. She looked fit, her hip healed.
Suddenly he thought, I hope sheâs carrying Ellieâs foal.
Sam and Hannibal had put Paladin together with the stallion, and had seen Ellie cover her.
Damn. If she wasnât in foal, she would be after a couple of weeks in this herd.
He decided he better check that The Celt hadnât been damaged. A man who didnât know how to fire a rifle wouldnât know how to take care of one.
He made sure the sun was behind him and trained the field glass on The Celt. The rifle looked fine. Hammer intact and not cocked, triggers still there, stock all right, butt looking normal. This glass was something. He felt like he could almost make out the name on the engraved butt plate, THE CELT . Celt was one of the few written words he knew. He inspected the rifle one more time. Heâd have to make sure that Reed hadnât stood it on its muzzle instead of its butt and clogged the barrel with dirt. Heâd also have to check that the ball, patch, and powder he kept in The Celt were still seated in the barrel. He wouldnât want to have a need, lift his rifle, and find out he was just pointing a stick at someone.
He smiled to himself. As things were, he could walk right up to Reed in broad daylight. Reed would aim The Celt at the intruder, intending to unleash lightning. The flint would go click! against the pan, and nothing would happen. While Reed was puzzling things out, Sam would drive a blade into his innards.
Sam considered that thought. Yes, he wanted to kill someone. These Mojaves murdered ten of his friends. And not in an honest fightâthrough treachery. No, he didnât mind his heat for revenge. But when it came to the actual killing, his stomach would churn.
It was midday. Probably the guards would be changed at dusk. Reed and Limp would go back to the village, and The Celt would go with them.
He could make his move now. Samâs way was to be daring, to act without planning everything out, to strike whenever opportunity seemed to open and ride out the storm. The edge always went to the bold.
Yes. He could take the guards out quietly one by one. He could grab The Celt and Paladin, swim the river, and ride hellaciously for California. He might also run the horse herd off. If he did that, the Mojaves would either have to take
The Mojaves kept the horses well guarded because they were enemies of the Yuma tribe, which lived downstream at the mouth of the Gila River.
Right now, Sam thought, you boys got your eyes on the wrong enemy.
He hadnât been worried about finding the horses, just his rifle. There were four or five hundred Mojave warriors. Theyâd stolen a bakerâs dozen rifles, but just one Celt. How would Sam ever find it?
Now he was grinning because the problem had just solved itself.
The Mojaves must be big on show.
Two guards were keeping an eye on the horses today, one tall and skinny like a reed, the other stocky, with a limp. And for no earthly reason those guards were carrying rifles. It made no sense. They wore no shot pouches, no powder horns. Which meant they couldnât actually fire the rifles. Probably they hadnât even figured out how yet. Still, they carried the weapons, probably proud of their symbols of thunder-striking.
Sam didnât recognize one rifle, might be anyoneâs. The other one was The Celt, and it was in the hands of the reedy fellow. That gave Sam a tingle.
He watched Paladin. Her white coat and black markings gleamed in the strong sunlight, black cap around the ears, black shield on the chest, and black mane and tail. âHello, gorgeous,â Sam whispered.
He watched her move around, grazing. She looked fit, her hip healed.
Suddenly he thought, I hope sheâs carrying Ellieâs foal.
Sam and Hannibal had put Paladin together with the stallion, and had seen Ellie cover her.
Damn. If she wasnât in foal, she would be after a couple of weeks in this herd.
He decided he better check that The Celt hadnât been damaged. A man who didnât know how to fire a rifle wouldnât know how to take care of one.
He made sure the sun was behind him and trained the field glass on The Celt. The rifle looked fine. Hammer intact and not cocked, triggers still there, stock all right, butt looking normal. This glass was something. He felt like he could almost make out the name on the engraved butt plate, THE CELT . Celt was one of the few written words he knew. He inspected the rifle one more time. Heâd have to make sure that Reed hadnât stood it on its muzzle instead of its butt and clogged the barrel with dirt. Heâd also have to check that the ball, patch, and powder he kept in The Celt were still seated in the barrel. He wouldnât want to have a need, lift his rifle, and find out he was just pointing a stick at someone.
He smiled to himself. As things were, he could walk right up to Reed in broad daylight. Reed would aim The Celt at the intruder, intending to unleash lightning. The flint would go click! against the pan, and nothing would happen. While Reed was puzzling things out, Sam would drive a blade into his innards.
Sam considered that thought. Yes, he wanted to kill someone. These Mojaves murdered ten of his friends. And not in an honest fightâthrough treachery. No, he didnât mind his heat for revenge. But when it came to the actual killing, his stomach would churn.
It was midday. Probably the guards would be changed at dusk. Reed and Limp would go back to the village, and The Celt would go with them.
He could make his move now. Samâs way was to be daring, to act without planning everything out, to strike whenever opportunity seemed to open and ride out the storm. The edge always went to the bold.
Yes. He could take the guards out quietly one by one. He could grab The Celt and Paladin, swim the river, and ride hellaciously for California. He might also run the horse herd off. If he did that, the Mojaves would either have to take
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