'Not so fast!' the corporal grumbled. He pulled at his lip. 'Just let me think here a minute!'
'There's no time to think! Phoebe Larkin has been kidnapped! Even now she may be in Agustin's camp in the Mazatzals, subjected to God knows what tortures, indignities—'
'You was sweet on the gal,' Bagley remarked. It was a statement, not a question. Jack Drumm stared at him.
'What do you know about my feelings for—for—'
'I know,' the corporal said. 'George Dunaway told me.'
Exasperated, Jack said, 'Are you going to lend me a horse or not?'
Bagley sighed, then whistled to a barrel-chested roan with a white star on the forehead.
'My own mount,' he said, throwing a saddle blanket over the horse's back. 'Take good care of Tom, Mr. Drumm. If anything was to happen to old Tom, I'd have to cut out your liver with a rusty knife.' Drawing the cinch tight, he spoke from under the horse's belly. 'You know why I'm trusting you with this here horse?'
Jack shook his head.
Bagley straightened, and contemplated him across the saddle.
'I finally figgered you for a natural man. Till now I took you for a stuffed shirt, as they say—river water in the veins, and didn't give shucks about anyone but yourself. But I guess I was wrong.' He shoved a Spencer carbine into the saddle scabbard and tossed Jack Drumm a quick-loading cartridge box of patent design. 'Seven-shot magazine —tube slides in through the buttplate. I'm charged with the damned carbine, too; bring it back along with the horse or Major Trimble'll kick my butt right into Leavenworth Prison.'
Jack mounted the roan. Skittish at his neatly pressed suit and bowler hat, Tom danced for a moment, snuffling and pawing the dust. He settled down when Jack pulled firmly on the reins.
'I'm going to ride directly to the ranch,' he told Charlie. 'You take the mule and wagon and come back through Prescott. I will cut straight across; down the Verde for a ways, then along Turkey Creek to the Agua Fria and the ranch.'
'Keep your eye peeled, Mr. Drumm!' Bagley warned. 'No telling where Agustin has got to by now! He may be heading for that country himself!'
Jack nodded. 'And I want you to know, Corporal, I'll never forget what you have done for me this day!'
'Neither will Major Trimble,' Bagley said glumly, 'if'n he finds out! But it's in a good cause, I guess. I liked Miss Phoebe.' He dug a toe in the dust. 'I had me a gal, onct, back in St. Louis, at Jefferson Barracks. She was a lot like Miss Phoebe. She—' Embarrassed, he broke off.
Jack leaned from the saddle, shook hands, wheeled the horse, and clapped his heels into Tom's ribs.
'Good luck, Mr. Drumm!' Bagley called after him.
It was almost fifty miles from Bear Spring station of the A. and P. to the ranch. The roan had a long easy pace, but much of the country was forbidding and rubble-littered, the way hindered by patches of cactus and narrow canyons. He had no map, but from the position of the sun he calculated a generally southerly course and knew that sooner or later he would intersect Turkey Creek.
By late afternoon the sun dropped behind the ridges and a chill crept over the land. The sunset was glorious in these high elevations, streaks of pink and saffron and a blue that was almost gun-metal trailed streamers across the sky. Jack pulled the coat tighter about him, suddenly aware that he was hungry. He had not eaten since morning, and breakfast had been scanty.
At the bottom of a gloomy canyon was a small spring. He and the roan Tom both drank from it. Squatting nearby, he watched Tom wrench up tufts of grass from the borders of the spring. If only man could digest grass like a horse! Instead, he pulled off a handful of mesquite beans and chewed them. They were sweet, but a little floury, and he drank more water. Stretching his legs, he once more mounted the roan and headed south.
Riding in the twilight was difficult, but he kept stubbornly on. Once the horse shied, almost throwing him. A rattle sounded underfoot. Remembering, Jack muttered, 'Ostin snake—sorry!'
A bit of moon rose, cup-shaped, as if to hold water. In Hampshire that meant rain, but here there was small prospect. The moon gave a little light, however, and they plodded on. Giant saguaros loomed high, the moon casting faint shadows of the many-armed figures. The moon drifted into a rack of clouds, feeble light dimming. In the distance a lone coyote howled, a high-pitched mournful keening that made Jack shiver, and not from the growing cold. In the small night breeze, desert bushes stirred, leaves rustling dryly.
For a while he dozed in the saddle. Suddenly he jerked erect, wondering where he
Sometime before dawn, slipping into an almost drugged sleep, he staggered off the horse and threw the reins over Tom's head, Arizona style. Taking off the saddle and the sweat-rank blanket, he left Tom to graze while he cradled his head on the saddle and pulled the coarse stinking wool of the blanket about him. At dawn he awoke only when slanting shafts of sunlight crept over the ridges. He sat up, blinking, rubbing his reddened eyes. Lord, he was sore! He was not used to riding such distances, or sleeping among the rocks.
The roan, dangling reins tangled in a cholla cactus, rolled patient eyes at him.
'Good horse,' Jack said again, and untangled the reins. Once more they started southward. In the distance he could see a vein of green that must be Turkey Creek.
The rising sun grew warm, then hot. At noon it had driven the chill from his bones, and he took off his coat and laid it over the saddle before him. His unsated hunger grew, possessed him. He felt faint, and wondered whether it was the heat or simply lack of food. Resting for a while in the shade of a desert ironwood, he thought longingly of Beulah Glore's hot biscuits, smothered in sidemeat gravy. What was happening at the ranch? Was there any word of Phoebe Larkin? He saw a tiny mouse gamboling about the twisted roots of the ironwood, pausing only to stand on hind feet and nibble seeds. He remembered Charlie the Papago snaring mice to eat, and almost wished he had a bit of thread or twine. After all, mice were animals, mammals, the same as beef cattle or sheep, only smaller. He would clean them first, of course, and it would take several mouse haunches to make a mouthful, but —
He got painfully to his feet and put the bowler hat on his head. The brim was narrow but the headgear, however inappropriate in these wilds, offered some protection against the sun.
'Tom!' he called, looking about for the horse. But behind him something made a small snapping sound and he wheeled, frightened. The carbine was in the saddle scabbard; he was defenseless.
Nothing—no further sound. He stared into the thicket of greasewood where the noise had seemed to originate. 'Who's there?' he called. His voice sounded dry and reedlike.
Again, nothing; no sound. The wind blew, the sun bore down. Tom ambled up and stood patiently by him. Jack snatched the carbine from the scabbard, grasping it uncertainly. In the wilderness of scraggly bush he did not know where to aim.
On sudden impulse he picked up a stone and flung it into the bushes. Anything was better than waiting to be slaughtered.
'Who's there?' he called again.
He was sweating; the shirt was wet, and the breeze pressed it cold and clammy against his chest. As he stared into the bushes, clutching the Spencer nervously, he caught sight of a gray doglike animal loping from the greasewood and onto the stony slope. The coyote looked back at him, tongue lolling pinkly from its mouth.
He sighed with relief. What he had heard must have been the coyote, sleeping off an all-night hunt in the bushes. He and Tom had come on it unexpectedly, that was all. But he would not dismount again without the carbine.
High and hazy, the Mazatzals now loomed on his left. He stared at them, narrowing his eyes against the sun, wondering where the Apache camp lay. Could Phoebe Larkin be up there, looking longingly down at the playa and freedom, or was she—was she—He refused to think about it. Together man and beast plodded on. The roan was tired now also, and ambled slowly unless Jack urged him on. Finally reaching Turkey Creek, they watered in the
