shot up. And our people—if they’re still alive.”
Brad Mathison was prone at a pothole, dipping water into himself with his tin cup, but he dropped the cup to come up with
a snap. As he spoke, Mart Pauley heard the same soft tones Brad’s father used when he neared an end of words. “I’ve heard
thee say that times enough,” Brad said.
“What?” Amos asked, astonished.
“Maybe she’s dead,” Brad said, his bloodshot blue eyes burning steadily into Amos’ face. “Maybethey’re both dead. But if I hear it from thee again, thee has chosen me—so help me God!”
Amos stared at Brad mildly, and when he spoke again it was to Mart Pauley. “They’ve took an awful big lead. Them we fought
at the Cat-tails must have got here early last night.”
“And the whole bunch pulled out the same hour,” Mart finished it.
It meant they were nine or ten hours back—and every one of the Comanches was now riding a rested animal. Only one answer
to that—such as it was: They had to rest their own horses, whether they could spare time for it or not. They spent an hour
dipping water into their hats; the ponies could not reach the little water in the bottom of the post-hole wells. When one
hole after another had been dipped dry they could only wait for the slow seepage to bring in another cupful, while the horses
stood by. After that they took yet another hour to let the horses crop the scant bunch grass, helping them by piling
grass they cut with their knives. A great amount of this work gained only the slightest advantage, but none of them
begrudged it.
Then, some hours beyond the posthole wells, they came to a vast sheet of rock, as flat and naked as it had been laid down when
the world was made. Here the trail ended, for unshod hoofs left no mark on the barren stone. Amos remembered this reef in
the plain. He believed it to be about four miles across by maybe eight or nine miles long, as nearly as he could recall.
All they could do was split up and circle the whole ledge to find where the trail came off the rock.
Mart Pauley, whose horse seemed the worst beat out, was sent straight across. On the far side he wasto wait, grazing within sight of the ledge, until one of the others came around to him; then both were to ride to meet the
third.
Thus they separated. It was while they were apart, each rider alone with his tiring horse, that some strange thing happened
to Amos, so that he became a mystery in himself throughout their last twenty-four hours together.
Brad Mathison was first to get around the rock sheet to where Mart Pauley was grazing his horse. Mart had been there many
hours, yet they rode south a long way before they sighted Amos, waiting for them far out on the plain.
“Hasn’t made much distance, has he?” Brad commented.
“Maybe the rock slick stretches a far piece down this way.”
“Don’t look like it to me.”
Mart didn’t say anything more. He could see for himself that the reef ended in a couple of miles.
Amos pointed to a far-off landmark as they came up. “The trail cuts around that hump,” he said, and led the way. The trail
was where Amos had said it would be, a great welter of horse prints already blurred by the wind. But no other horse
had been along here since the Comanches passed long before.
“Kind of thought to see your tracks here,” Brad said.
“Didn’t come this far.”
Then where the hell had he been all this time? If it had been Lije Powers, Mart would have known he had sneaked himself a
nap. “You lost a bed blanket,” Mart noticed.
“Slipped out of the strings somewhere. I sure ain’t going back for it now.” Amos was speakingtoo carefully. He put Mart in mind of a man half stopped in a fist fight, making out he was unhurt so his opponent wouldn’t
know, and finish him.
“You feel all right?” he asked Amos.
“Sure. I feel fine.” Amos forced a smile, and this was a mistake, for he didn’t look to be smiling.
Brad Mathison was prone at a pothole, dipping water into himself with his tin cup, but he dropped the cup to come up with
a snap. As he spoke, Mart Pauley heard the same soft tones Brad’s father used when he neared an end of words. “I’ve heard
thee say that times enough,” Brad said.
“What?” Amos asked, astonished.
“Maybe she’s dead,” Brad said, his bloodshot blue eyes burning steadily into Amos’ face. “Maybethey’re both dead. But if I hear it from thee again, thee has chosen me—so help me God!”
Amos stared at Brad mildly, and when he spoke again it was to Mart Pauley. “They’ve took an awful big lead. Them we fought
at the Cat-tails must have got here early last night.”
“And the whole bunch pulled out the same hour,” Mart finished it.
It meant they were nine or ten hours back—and every one of the Comanches was now riding a rested animal. Only one answer
to that—such as it was: They had to rest their own horses, whether they could spare time for it or not. They spent an hour
dipping water into their hats; the ponies could not reach the little water in the bottom of the post-hole wells. When one
hole after another had been dipped dry they could only wait for the slow seepage to bring in another cupful, while the horses
stood by. After that they took yet another hour to let the horses crop the scant bunch grass, helping them by piling
grass they cut with their knives. A great amount of this work gained only the slightest advantage, but none of them
begrudged it.
Then, some hours beyond the posthole wells, they came to a vast sheet of rock, as flat and naked as it had been laid down when
the world was made. Here the trail ended, for unshod hoofs left no mark on the barren stone. Amos remembered this reef in
the plain. He believed it to be about four miles across by maybe eight or nine miles long, as nearly as he could recall.
All they could do was split up and circle the whole ledge to find where the trail came off the rock.
Mart Pauley, whose horse seemed the worst beat out, was sent straight across. On the far side he wasto wait, grazing within sight of the ledge, until one of the others came around to him; then both were to ride to meet the
third.
Thus they separated. It was while they were apart, each rider alone with his tiring horse, that some strange thing happened
to Amos, so that he became a mystery in himself throughout their last twenty-four hours together.
Brad Mathison was first to get around the rock sheet to where Mart Pauley was grazing his horse. Mart had been there many
hours, yet they rode south a long way before they sighted Amos, waiting for them far out on the plain.
“Hasn’t made much distance, has he?” Brad commented.
“Maybe the rock slick stretches a far piece down this way.”
“Don’t look like it to me.”
Mart didn’t say anything more. He could see for himself that the reef ended in a couple of miles.
Amos pointed to a far-off landmark as they came up. “The trail cuts around that hump,” he said, and led the way. The trail
was where Amos had said it would be, a great welter of horse prints already blurred by the wind. But no other horse
had been along here since the Comanches passed long before.
“Kind of thought to see your tracks here,” Brad said.
“Didn’t come this far.”
Then where the hell had he been all this time? If it had been Lije Powers, Mart would have known he had sneaked himself a
nap. “You lost a bed blanket,” Mart noticed.
“Slipped out of the strings somewhere. I sure ain’t going back for it now.” Amos was speakingtoo carefully. He put Mart in mind of a man half stopped in a fist fight, making out he was unhurt so his opponent wouldn’t
know, and finish him.
“You feel all right?” he asked Amos.
“Sure. I feel fine.” Amos forced a smile, and this was a mistake, for he didn’t look to be smiling.
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