gritty
stuff uncertainly until he saw Kristland lick up his portion with a long
tongue.
"What is it?"
“Penole—parched corn," the trumpeter
mumbled. "It keeps a man going, but it don't stick to the ribs none ."
Ritchie ground the tasteless stuff between his
teeth. It was getting lighter now, and he could count the men who were strung
out along the dried-up stream bed. Eight—nine —ten—thirteen—fourteen— One was missing, but, even as he discovered that, a second
man vanished on foot among the rocks.
"All right, men!" That was Herndon's
whisper carrying authority. "Every fifth man—horse-holder."
Ritchie counted again. This time he had no
desire to remain in that noncombatant post. But, with a sigh of relief, he
found himself fourth instead of fifth.
"As soon as Velasco reports back, be prepared to move."
Carbines moved down the line. They would leave
sabres behind—they were little good when climbing. A carbine, a knife, and
maybe a pistol—if one was lucky enough to rate one—that was for this work.
Ritchie was tapped lightly on the shoulder. He
jumped, and when he saw the tapper was Herndon, he flushed.
"You and Kristland are to follow
me."
Had Herndon looked amused when he said that?
Ritchie scowled at the nearest rock.
Velasco was back; he had flitted in as
noiselessly as a snow owl.
"On foot—" Ritchie could catch only
a word or two. "Two—three miles to the northwest. Cross the spur 'n come down from the ledges before they know— There is a house of the Old Ones which can cover us—"
"Very well." That was Herndon again. "Ready." His raised voice went down the line.
"No noise and close up. We'll have to climb, and if any fool gives us
away—"
There was no need for him to add to the threat
in that. Ritchie nervously slung his carbine and edged along with the trumpeter
at the Sergeant's back.
4
“The Game's Made, 'n the Ball's Rollin'!”
Ritchie moved awkwardly and tried to disguise
it. His bruised shoulder was tender, raw flesh under the jerk of his carbine
strap. But he dared not try any adjustments. He had too good an opinion of
Herndon's ability to see all and know all, and he had no wish to be sent
ignominiously back to companion the horse-holders.
They climbed steadily, and the pace Herndon
set was not too taxing. But the thin cold air blowing down over the mountain
snow was one to sear the throat and lungs, and they were all panting. The trail
they took kept them to what cover there was, angling up the heights in every
bit of shadow afforded by pinon, bush, or outcrop. Near the top of the rise
Herndon paused under an overhang of red rock and waited for them to crowd in
about him.
Then, with quick strokes of a pencil on a slab
of rock, he plotted the course of the action to come.
"Velasco, Hermann, O'Neill, and Dermont,
with Krist-land, will go down here, cross the ridge, and take cover on the
opposite mesa top. At the signal shot Kristland will sound Attack.
“The Apache rancheria is located here—on a
ledge jutting out from the mountain. We'll wait a while to see most of the
warriors come in before we strike. We want to get the men, not the women and
children." He rubbed absently at the marks he had made. “Poor devils, if
we win, they'll get theirs anyway, left without food or shelter. Now" —his
voice was crisp again—"the rest of us will cut aside from the trail in
another hundred yards.
''Right about here, overlooking the
stuff uncertainly until he saw Kristland lick up his portion with a long
tongue.
"What is it?"
“Penole—parched corn," the trumpeter
mumbled. "It keeps a man going, but it don't stick to the ribs none ."
Ritchie ground the tasteless stuff between his
teeth. It was getting lighter now, and he could count the men who were strung
out along the dried-up stream bed. Eight—nine —ten—thirteen—fourteen— One was missing, but, even as he discovered that, a second
man vanished on foot among the rocks.
"All right, men!" That was Herndon's
whisper carrying authority. "Every fifth man—horse-holder."
Ritchie counted again. This time he had no
desire to remain in that noncombatant post. But, with a sigh of relief, he
found himself fourth instead of fifth.
"As soon as Velasco reports back, be prepared to move."
Carbines moved down the line. They would leave
sabres behind—they were little good when climbing. A carbine, a knife, and
maybe a pistol—if one was lucky enough to rate one—that was for this work.
Ritchie was tapped lightly on the shoulder. He
jumped, and when he saw the tapper was Herndon, he flushed.
"You and Kristland are to follow
me."
Had Herndon looked amused when he said that?
Ritchie scowled at the nearest rock.
Velasco was back; he had flitted in as
noiselessly as a snow owl.
"On foot—" Ritchie could catch only
a word or two. "Two—three miles to the northwest. Cross the spur 'n come down from the ledges before they know— There is a house of the Old Ones which can cover us—"
"Very well." That was Herndon again. "Ready." His raised voice went down the line.
"No noise and close up. We'll have to climb, and if any fool gives us
away—"
There was no need for him to add to the threat
in that. Ritchie nervously slung his carbine and edged along with the trumpeter
at the Sergeant's back.
4
“The Game's Made, 'n the Ball's Rollin'!”
Ritchie moved awkwardly and tried to disguise
it. His bruised shoulder was tender, raw flesh under the jerk of his carbine
strap. But he dared not try any adjustments. He had too good an opinion of
Herndon's ability to see all and know all, and he had no wish to be sent
ignominiously back to companion the horse-holders.
They climbed steadily, and the pace Herndon
set was not too taxing. But the thin cold air blowing down over the mountain
snow was one to sear the throat and lungs, and they were all panting. The trail
they took kept them to what cover there was, angling up the heights in every
bit of shadow afforded by pinon, bush, or outcrop. Near the top of the rise
Herndon paused under an overhang of red rock and waited for them to crowd in
about him.
Then, with quick strokes of a pencil on a slab
of rock, he plotted the course of the action to come.
"Velasco, Hermann, O'Neill, and Dermont,
with Krist-land, will go down here, cross the ridge, and take cover on the
opposite mesa top. At the signal shot Kristland will sound Attack.
“The Apache rancheria is located here—on a
ledge jutting out from the mountain. We'll wait a while to see most of the
warriors come in before we strike. We want to get the men, not the women and
children." He rubbed absently at the marks he had made. “Poor devils, if
we win, they'll get theirs anyway, left without food or shelter. Now" —his
voice was crisp again—"the rest of us will cut aside from the trail in
another hundred yards.
''Right about here, overlooking the
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