could get off the Laramie Plains, could get into some shielding hills or into a forest of trees, those moving dark shapes far back there would always have him in sight, and probably, in the end, because they knew where water was in this sere world and Frank did not, they would overtake him.
The pivot of survival for Frank Travis was his thoroughbred horse. This handsome big blood bay animal may have lacked the seasoned toughness of those coarser beasts far back; he may have come a greater distance under the blasting summertime sun, but he had the speed to outdistance his pursuers completely. It was this that Frank was relying upon; if he had to, he could use the swiftness of his mount to escape. But if he did this, he very well knew, he would probably kill the thoroughbred or at the least break its wind. Either of those things would put Frank at the complete mercy of his pursuers, and he had no doubt at all about the limit of that kind of mercy. Road agents were notorious for killing anyone they robbed, in order that no living witnesses ever identified them.
The race continued. Frank kept just beyond Winchester range, and his pursuers plodded after him as stubbornly persistent as men could be. Sun glare diminished; a reddish brightness lay rustily over the countryside. The race became now a test of endurance. Men and animals moved mechanically, eyes inflamed, throats tortured, and muscles jerky with dehydration, with fatigue. The end could not be postponed much longer. Frank gradually accepted this nearing finality and assumed that those three men behind him, all that remained in sight now of the original thirty, also understood this.
He began to view those onward mountains without hope; they were still retreating, still miles away. Northward it was the same, Laramie Plains all the way to other blue-blurred forested lifts and peaks. That flat, summer-hard land ran on like an oily sea frozen in motion. Southward, too, there was nothing, no trees, no rocks, not even erosion gullies as far as Frank could see.
His blood bay horse began to lag.
Far back those three grim pursuers were still there. One of them was dropping back from the others, his horse also nearly finished. The other two, however, were still coming on. They no longer loped but they alternately walked and trotted. Beyond them there was nothing to be seen of their companions. A filmy heat haze back there obscured the horizon, made it shimmer and fade out, firm up, then fade again.
The day was close to ending. Dusk would come, and after that night, but full darkness would not descend until near nine o’clock. Frank knew this and was discouraged from believing nightfall could succor him. He had only one hope of escape, and that was the thoroughbred horse under him.
Time flowed. Frank favored his mount as much as possible, but obviously the hours-long chase had drained away the thoroughbred’s last reserves of strength.
Only two pursuers were now in sight far back. Frank was considering them, balancing in his mind the odds of survival. He was sitting, twisted in the saddle, both booted feet lightly touching his Visalia stirrups. He was not looking ahead at all and therefore did not know he and his horse had entered the honeycombed ground area of a prairie dog village until, without even a grunt, his animal stepped upon weakened ground, broke through up to his fetlocks, and fell heavily. Frank was shot ahead. He landed hard and lay a second without moving, without immediately comprehending what had happened. He rolled over, got up onto one knee, and saw his horse struggling upright with one front leg held clear as though injured or broken. One glance at the caved-in earth, the myriad holes roundabout, explained what had happened. He stood up, mechanically struck at the gray dust, then went over where the thoroughbred was standing head down, eyes glazed, that injured foreleg held up.
“This is where we part company,” he told the horse as though speaking to another man. “You did your best. Except for the prairie dog village we’d have made it, old-timer.” He ran a gentle hand over the animal’s quivering shoulder, drew his carbine, looked back where those two remaining pursuers were coming together, were stopping to speak, and also draw forth their saddle guns, then he did what he could for the horse. He tugged loose the
“Move off,” he said. “No point in you getting it, too.”
The horse responded with several awkward hops, still favoring that sprained ankle. Frank caught up the saddle, walked northward a little distance, threw it down, and got down flat behind it with his Winchester. He did not have a good defense; against one man it might have been adequate but not against two men. Two men could do what had to be done easily, one in front, one behind.
He levered up a load, placed the carbine over his saddle seat, and waited. He was thirst-tortured; each time his eyes moved, it felt as though he had granules of sand under his eyelids. That blood-red sun, which was falling away in the west, burned against his back, his shoulders, his saddle-molded legs.
Those two unrelenting horsemen began their slow advance. Behind them the third rider was coming up again. None of those three men hurried; even if their horses had been capable of hurry, there was no longer any need for it.
They halted again just beyond carbine range; they turned to wave the third man forward. Some little time passed before the three of them were all together, but even then they evidenced no eagerness. They sat out there in that reddening immensity of dead land like some bizarre variety of carrion eater, looking ahead where Frank Travis lay forted up behind his saddle, speaking quietly among themselves, planning what they would do and how they must do it. Once or twice they looked back for the balance of the riders who had been with them; this was their only indication of uneasiness.
Frank’s body oozed sweat where scorched earth touched him. He ran a soiled sleeve over his face, let the arm fall upon the saddlebags behind his saddle cantle, and followed out the movement of that arm. He gazed at those saddlebags with irony; he ran his free hand over their scuffed and bulging exterior, thinking back down the years for this little quiet time as men sometimes do when the scent of death is close and unmistakable.
He looked around for the thoroughbred, saw him hobbling toward a clump of buffalo grass with that swollen foreleg six inches off the ground, and called softly: “Thanks and good luck, pardner.”
A thin, fluting call rode the westward air from out where those three horsemen were. Frank swung his wandering thoughts, his full attention back to them. They were breaking up as he’d known they would. One was coming straight at him; another was riding widely around to come in upon him from behind. The third man was swinging wide, too, in the opposite direction; he would come in from that side.
Frank swore under his breath saying—“Get it over with.” and called those three strangers harsh names.
He watched to see which rider would come into range first. But these were canny plainsmen; they remained just out of bullet reach as they circled and tacked and angled onward. They seemed to know almost to the foot just how far Frank’s carbine would reach. When they were finally in position, the man who was to strike from Frank’s rear dismounted, drew his carbine, and dropped down to one knee. He made a poor target in that failing red light low upon the cooling earth, but Frank twisted and fired at him just the same.
At once all three enemies fired back. Frank whipped around as the northward man dashed suddenly ahead Indian-like and threw himself flat to blend with the puddling shadows. Frank would have fired at this man but he had no time. The southward man got off a shot, then the rearward man also fired. The northward man lunged upright and raced ahead again. This time Frank fired. Dust spurted a yard ahead of his racing foe-man. The running man dropped like a stone. He did not return Frank’s shot. He began snake-crawling forward, using his punched- down carbine butt for balance and purchase. Of the three he was closest. Frank swung to concentrate upon this man. He levered and fired, saw dust spurt, saw that crawling man frantically change course, and fired again.
Behind him a slamming explosion showed that another enemy was also running in now. That bullet pierced Frank’s saddle skirt. From southward came another near miss; this one struck through the
Frank’s vision cleared and his tormenting thirst was entirely forgotten. He had only a few moments left. He ignored those near misses to put his whole attention upon that northward crawling man. He came up off the ground to one knee. A slug struck leather beside him, tore into saddle swells, and violently upturned the saddle. Frank ignored it. He tracked that northward enemy, caught him in his sights, drew him down the barrel, and fired. The crawling man jerked up off the ground like a broken doll; he flung away his Winchester; he fell back and flopped frantically with diminishing motions until he lay quite still.
Frank was turning away, was levering up another bullet. He did not hear the gunfire; he only felt a sudden burst of heat inside him, then he tumbled into a suffocating black and spiraling void.
