ride over the high prairie at 'em. They'll stick a man up in a cottonwood or atop a hill, and he'll see us comin' for miles."
Cris was irritated. That was obvious, and made him look the fool. He said, "Let's get yonder to the low ground, then."
Reppato Pratt led a winding way through connecting valleys among the rolling hills. Here and there was an outcropping of rock, and the land grew drier, the vegetation more sparse. Cris mopped the sweat from his face and shifted his grip on the rifle to dry his palms on his pants. Wouldn't be much left of his suit after this ride, and he had no other.
That was the trouble with being poor: a man could not make a move without thinking of the consequences. A man who had another suit or more than one extra pair of pants need only go to the closet or the wardrobe and pick and choose; but a man who had no more than he owned now could never cease from worry that he'd be left without any. This eternal riding was playing hob with his pants, and soon he'd be out at knees and seat, with only one extra pair to his name and them maybe lost or stolen at the end of track.
Holding to low ground, they rode slowly forward. They'd have to attack by night. That thought came to Cris and did not worry him. He was no red Indian but he'd done his share of poaching, and could move quietly and easily in the darkness.
It was nearing sundown when Pratt lifted a hand to stop them. He dismounted and walked forward, studying the ground. They were beside a small stream that flowed toward a river, easily distinguished by the tops of trees, only a mile or two away.
Pratt came back to them. "Couple has been through here," he said, "scourin' the country, no doubt, to see if they're alone. Outriders."
"You think they'd come back?"
"Ain't likely. None o' that crowd's over--ambitious. They'll be watchin' the land, but we've raised no dust an' we've held to low ground so there's a blame good chance they ain't suspectin' they got company. Right ahead of here, I seen it, there's some cover an' a spring of water. We'll just set down there an' wait for nightfall."
They had not long to wait. Cris Mayo took off his coat and folded it behind his saddle. He knew that what lay ahead would be dangerous and he might not come out alive, yet he had no idea of quitting. He was scared and jumpy, of course, and low in his mind, but he'd not quit.
He wasn't hungry, and he should have been. The stars began to come out in the still--light sky, a soft wind blew through the leaves and the grass. He went to the spring, drank, then bathed his face and eyes in the cold water. When he stood straight, Barda was beside him. "Cris," she said, "I'm frightened." She looked up at him. "Are you?"
"I am."
"But you're going on with it?"
"I am."
"I got you into this. If anything happens to you I'll never forgive myself."
"Too late for that now, Miss McClean. We're in it All three of us."
"I cannot believe this is happening to me. I cannot believe that those men would be as brutal as you and Rep say."
"Nobody ever believes it until it is too late. Everyone has the same idea: that it could not happen to them. It is always happening to somebody else, and you see it in the papers and don't credit it. Thieves, outlaws and the like, now, they are no braver than you, and most times less brave. They just figure you will be scared to a jelly, and will do nothing to defend yourself because you think they are so dangerous."
She was silent. He liked the nearness of her, yet he was no fool. This was a colonel's daughter and he was an immigrant laborer, a man with no future that anybody could see. Besides, back in Ireland there was Maire Kinsella. Yet Maire's features had faded somewhat in his memory, and that disturbed him, because it was Maire for whom he would one day go back to the old country.
"You're very brave," she said. "I will not forget what you are doing."
"If we get out alive," he said. "I am not all that brave, and they are better shots than
Cris was irritated. That was obvious, and made him look the fool. He said, "Let's get yonder to the low ground, then."
Reppato Pratt led a winding way through connecting valleys among the rolling hills. Here and there was an outcropping of rock, and the land grew drier, the vegetation more sparse. Cris mopped the sweat from his face and shifted his grip on the rifle to dry his palms on his pants. Wouldn't be much left of his suit after this ride, and he had no other.
That was the trouble with being poor: a man could not make a move without thinking of the consequences. A man who had another suit or more than one extra pair of pants need only go to the closet or the wardrobe and pick and choose; but a man who had no more than he owned now could never cease from worry that he'd be left without any. This eternal riding was playing hob with his pants, and soon he'd be out at knees and seat, with only one extra pair to his name and them maybe lost or stolen at the end of track.
Holding to low ground, they rode slowly forward. They'd have to attack by night. That thought came to Cris and did not worry him. He was no red Indian but he'd done his share of poaching, and could move quietly and easily in the darkness.
It was nearing sundown when Pratt lifted a hand to stop them. He dismounted and walked forward, studying the ground. They were beside a small stream that flowed toward a river, easily distinguished by the tops of trees, only a mile or two away.
Pratt came back to them. "Couple has been through here," he said, "scourin' the country, no doubt, to see if they're alone. Outriders."
"You think they'd come back?"
"Ain't likely. None o' that crowd's over--ambitious. They'll be watchin' the land, but we've raised no dust an' we've held to low ground so there's a blame good chance they ain't suspectin' they got company. Right ahead of here, I seen it, there's some cover an' a spring of water. We'll just set down there an' wait for nightfall."
They had not long to wait. Cris Mayo took off his coat and folded it behind his saddle. He knew that what lay ahead would be dangerous and he might not come out alive, yet he had no idea of quitting. He was scared and jumpy, of course, and low in his mind, but he'd not quit.
He wasn't hungry, and he should have been. The stars began to come out in the still--light sky, a soft wind blew through the leaves and the grass. He went to the spring, drank, then bathed his face and eyes in the cold water. When he stood straight, Barda was beside him. "Cris," she said, "I'm frightened." She looked up at him. "Are you?"
"I am."
"But you're going on with it?"
"I am."
"I got you into this. If anything happens to you I'll never forgive myself."
"Too late for that now, Miss McClean. We're in it All three of us."
"I cannot believe this is happening to me. I cannot believe that those men would be as brutal as you and Rep say."
"Nobody ever believes it until it is too late. Everyone has the same idea: that it could not happen to them. It is always happening to somebody else, and you see it in the papers and don't credit it. Thieves, outlaws and the like, now, they are no braver than you, and most times less brave. They just figure you will be scared to a jelly, and will do nothing to defend yourself because you think they are so dangerous."
She was silent. He liked the nearness of her, yet he was no fool. This was a colonel's daughter and he was an immigrant laborer, a man with no future that anybody could see. Besides, back in Ireland there was Maire Kinsella. Yet Maire's features had faded somewhat in his memory, and that disturbed him, because it was Maire for whom he would one day go back to the old country.
"You're very brave," she said. "I will not forget what you are doing."
"If we get out alive," he said. "I am not all that brave, and they are better shots than
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