saddle and rode out to the herd.
Tom Sandy came up to the fire for more coffee, and for the first time I saw he was wearing a six-shooter. He favored a rifle, as I do, but tonight he was packing a gun. Rose was at the fire, too. A dark, pretty woman with a lot of woman where it mattered, and a way of making a man notice. She had those big dark eyes, and any time she looked at an attractive man those eyes carried a challenge or an invitation.
Or something that could be taken that way. Believe me, she was no woman to have around a cow outfit.
Sandy looked across the fire at her a few times, and he looked mean as an old razor -back boar.
Rose dished up some beans and beef for Tom and brought them to him, and then she turned to me. "Dan, can I help you to something?"
I looked up at her and she was smiling at me, and I swallowed a couple of times.
"Thank you, ma'am. I would like some more of those frijoles.'"
She went to the fire for them, giving her hips that extra movement as she walked away, and Tom Sandy was staring at me with a mean look in his eye.
"Hot," I said, running a finger around my shirt collar.
"'I hadn't noticed," he said.
Pa came over and dropped down beside me. "Tap figures we'd better get on the road right away in the morning, before daybreak. What do you think?"
"'Good idea," I said.
Tom Sandy walked off, and Pa looked at me. "Dan, you aren't walking out with Rose Sandy, are you?"
"Are you crazy?"
"Somebody is. Tom knows it and he's mad. If he finds out, there'll be a killing."
"Don't look at me. If I was planning to start something like that, she wouldn't be the one."
At sunup we were well down the trail and moving steadily westward. Away from the stream the land was dry and desolate, and showed little grass. It was a warning of what lay ahead.
So far we had done well. Despite the driving off of our cattle and our recovery of them, we seemed to have lost none, and we had gained by half a dozen horses that had been driven off with the cattle when we recovered them.
We saw little game. There were the usual prairie dogs and jackass rabbits, and when we camped that night Zeno caught us a mess of catfish which offered a change of diet.
Out on the plains away from the river there was prickly pear, greasewood, and sage brush, but mighty little else. Here and there in a bottom or at a creek crossing we found a few acres of grama, and we took time out to let the cattle eat. It was a scary thing to think of the long marches ahead of us with grass growing less and less.
We all knew about the eighty miles of dry march ahead of us, but we preferred not to think of it. Each night we filled our barrels to have as much water as we could for the day to come. But all of us knew there might be a time when there would be no water, not even for ourselves and our horses.
We nooned at a pool, shallow but quite extensive, but when we left, it was only a patch of muddy earth churned by the feet of our cattle.
While there, I went up to the Mexican's wagon to see how he was . . . or at least, that's what I told myself.
When I spoke, the redhead drew back the curtain, and her smile was something to see.
"Oh, please come in! Miguel has been telling me how it was you who found him."
"Just happened to be first," I said, embarrassed.
"If you had not found me," Miguel said, "I should now be dead. That I know. Nobody else had come to see what lay out there, even if they heard me."
"Your name is Dan Killoe?" she asked. "I am Conchita McCrae. My father was Scotch-Irish, my mother a Mexican." "You had nerve," I said.
"You must have ridden for days." "There was no one else. Miguel's father is dead, and there is only our mother ... his mother. She is very old, and she worried about her son."
Well, maybe so, but it took nerve for a girl---or a man for that matter--to ride into Comanche country alone. Or even to drive through it, as we were. She had a fast horse, but that isn't too much help when the Comanche knows the
Tom Sandy came up to the fire for more coffee, and for the first time I saw he was wearing a six-shooter. He favored a rifle, as I do, but tonight he was packing a gun. Rose was at the fire, too. A dark, pretty woman with a lot of woman where it mattered, and a way of making a man notice. She had those big dark eyes, and any time she looked at an attractive man those eyes carried a challenge or an invitation.
Or something that could be taken that way. Believe me, she was no woman to have around a cow outfit.
Sandy looked across the fire at her a few times, and he looked mean as an old razor -back boar.
Rose dished up some beans and beef for Tom and brought them to him, and then she turned to me. "Dan, can I help you to something?"
I looked up at her and she was smiling at me, and I swallowed a couple of times.
"Thank you, ma'am. I would like some more of those frijoles.'"
She went to the fire for them, giving her hips that extra movement as she walked away, and Tom Sandy was staring at me with a mean look in his eye.
"Hot," I said, running a finger around my shirt collar.
"'I hadn't noticed," he said.
Pa came over and dropped down beside me. "Tap figures we'd better get on the road right away in the morning, before daybreak. What do you think?"
"'Good idea," I said.
Tom Sandy walked off, and Pa looked at me. "Dan, you aren't walking out with Rose Sandy, are you?"
"Are you crazy?"
"Somebody is. Tom knows it and he's mad. If he finds out, there'll be a killing."
"Don't look at me. If I was planning to start something like that, she wouldn't be the one."
At sunup we were well down the trail and moving steadily westward. Away from the stream the land was dry and desolate, and showed little grass. It was a warning of what lay ahead.
So far we had done well. Despite the driving off of our cattle and our recovery of them, we seemed to have lost none, and we had gained by half a dozen horses that had been driven off with the cattle when we recovered them.
We saw little game. There were the usual prairie dogs and jackass rabbits, and when we camped that night Zeno caught us a mess of catfish which offered a change of diet.
Out on the plains away from the river there was prickly pear, greasewood, and sage brush, but mighty little else. Here and there in a bottom or at a creek crossing we found a few acres of grama, and we took time out to let the cattle eat. It was a scary thing to think of the long marches ahead of us with grass growing less and less.
We all knew about the eighty miles of dry march ahead of us, but we preferred not to think of it. Each night we filled our barrels to have as much water as we could for the day to come. But all of us knew there might be a time when there would be no water, not even for ourselves and our horses.
We nooned at a pool, shallow but quite extensive, but when we left, it was only a patch of muddy earth churned by the feet of our cattle.
While there, I went up to the Mexican's wagon to see how he was . . . or at least, that's what I told myself.
When I spoke, the redhead drew back the curtain, and her smile was something to see.
"Oh, please come in! Miguel has been telling me how it was you who found him."
"Just happened to be first," I said, embarrassed.
"If you had not found me," Miguel said, "I should now be dead. That I know. Nobody else had come to see what lay out there, even if they heard me."
"Your name is Dan Killoe?" she asked. "I am Conchita McCrae. My father was Scotch-Irish, my mother a Mexican." "You had nerve," I said.
"You must have ridden for days." "There was no one else. Miguel's father is dead, and there is only our mother ... his mother. She is very old, and she worried about her son."
Well, maybe so, but it took nerve for a girl---or a man for that matter--to ride into Comanche country alone. Or even to drive through it, as we were. She had a fast horse, but that isn't too much help when the Comanche knows the
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