Red Moon by Ralph Cotton Page B

somewhere,” Sam said regarding the two passengers.
    â€œI’d say so too,” said Dawson. “But I never seen them. I found dead coyotes, dead lizards, dead coach horses—even found a foreleg of one where the poor thing must’ve got it wrenched off between some rocks. But no passengers, not yet anyway.”
    â€œHow long do you suppose before somebody will come looking for you?” Sam asked.
    â€œThey could already be on their way,” said Dawson, picking at the seat of his wet trousers as he looked off toward Nogales. “That is if the weather ain’t as bad in that direction.”
    â€œWe’re a far ways off the trail,” Sam said, considering things. “It could take them some time finding us.”
    â€œA situation like this, they’ll look for smoke or fire all up along the rocks,” Dawson said. “Trouble is, where are we going to find any dry wood, except under some overhang higher up?” He looked up the steep rocky hillsides. “You like to climb as much as I do?” he added wryly.
    â€œCome on,” Sam said, noting the gray-black sky moving closer overhead. “Let’s get your pard across the horse’s back and get on up there. It looks like this blow’s not finished with us yet.”
    â€œBlasted damn desert,” said Dawson, standing in the rain. “One minute a man’s ready to sell his soul for enough water to wet his tongue. Next minute he’s fighting for his life to keep from being washed off the earth.” As he spoke, lightning twisted white-gold in the black sky; thunder rumbled in closer and exploded overhead.
    â€œI’ve got his feet,” Sam said, stepping over to Long’s body on the ground and stooping down to pick him up.
    Dawson scooped Long up carefully beneath his wet limp shoulders, and the two lifted the body and laid it over the roan’s wet saddle, Sam taking pains to be extra careful owing to the shotgun rider’s feelings toward his fallen comrade.
    As the two prepared to leave, Dawson stood beside the horse and patted Long’s wet back.
    â€œI believe you would like Dan’l had you two got to know each other, Ranger,” he said quietly.
    â€œI’m sure of it,” Sam replied. Before the shotgun rider could say any more on the matter, Sam pointed off toward a long shelf of rock halfway up a rocky hillside.
    Dawson only stared at him curiously.
    â€œOnce we get up there and get a fire going, we’ll both feel a lot better,” Sam said. “You can tell me all about him.”
    The old coachman chuckled gruffly and drew his shoulders up against the rain, the wind starting to rebuild.
    â€œI know I talk too much, Ranger. Dan’l tells me that—I mean he
told me
that all the time,” he said, correcting himself. “Sometimes I get to talking and just get carried away in it. Dan’l always said I’d make a good politician, preacher or such—”
    â€œI understand,” Sam said, gently cutting him short. He took the roan by its single rein and turned it toward the hillsides, his shortened rifle in hand. “We can talk while we’re walking. We don’t want to get caught in this blow that’s coming.”
    â€œI’m with you on that,” Dawson said, following alongside him, limping a little on his bloody feet. “I’ve had enough rain and wind to last me a lifetime.”
    They walked on as the rain and wind grew more intense, the storm moving up onto the far edge of the earth, ready for another hard round.
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    It was midafternoon when the two sloshed upward among the rocks through a hard, wind-driven rain no less violent than the one they’d survived the night before. Thunder and lightning moved up close on their trail as they reached the ledge running along the hill line and stepped into shelter beneath it. Beside the Ranger, the roan hugged