even a cavalry patrol. In that case, it would be good to meet up with them. They could help him patch up Matt’s wounds.
Until he knew for sure, it might be wise to err on the side of caution. He turned the horse to the south, thinking he would move out of the path of the oncoming riders.
There was a cloud of dust rising into the blue sky from that direction, too.
Sam’s mouth tightened into a grim line as he turned back to the north. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised to see more dust that way.
Whoever the riders were, they were closing in around him and Matt. The only possible way to escape would be to turn completely around and gallop eastward.
Even that would be futile, Sam realized. His horse was big and strong, but carrying double this way, it would only be a matter of time until the pursuit caught up. They couldn’t possibly outrun it.
Instead, Sam slid down from the saddle, caught hold of Matt, and lowered him gently to the ground. Then he drew the Winchester again and thumbed cartridges into it until the magazine was full and a round was in the chamber.
He forced his horse to lie down. Sam stretched out behind the animal and laid the rifle over the horse’s flank.
He had sixteen bullets in the rifle and six more in his Colt. He would sell their lives at the cost of every one of those slugs if he had to.
The dust clouds came nearer. Sam saw the dark shapes of the riders at the base of those clouds as they closed in. When they came in range of the Winchester, he held his fire because he couldn’t be sure who they were.
A moment later he was able to make out buckskin leggings, red and blue shirts, bandannas bound around black hair, and ponies being ridden without saddles. The three groups of riders converged around him and Matt and then came to a halt about fifty yards away.
One man urged his pony forward. His dark face was set in a grim expression, and he carried an old single-shot rifle.
Sam had a hunch that he was looking at a Navajo chief.
The rider called out a challenge in his native tongue, demanding to know who Sam was. Sam wasn’t fluent in the language, but he understood enough to know what was being asked of him.
He kept his rifle trained on the chief as he replied in Spanish, “Two Wolves, son of Medicine Horse!” A lot of the tribes in this part of the country spoke that language in addition to their own.
The chief scowled—although it was hard to discern much change in what was evidently his natural expression —and turned to say something to one of the other warriors.
This man, who also carried an old rifle, rode forward past the leader and came closer to Sam.
“Caballo Rojo says you look like a white man, not a Mexican,” the warrior said in English. “Are you?”
“My father was Medicine Horse of the Cheyenne,” Sam insisted, also speaking English this time.
“And your mother was white,” the Navajo said. He spoke the white man’s language well, which led Sam to believe that he had spent some time on the reservation, around missionaries and the Bureau of Indian Affairs functionaries.
“My mother was white,” Sam admitted. Most Indians were fairly tolerant of people with mixed blood, although like any other group, some looked down on the so-called half-breeds.
The warrior who was talking to him sneered.
“You travel with a white man, you dress like a white man, you use a saddle like a white man. You might as well be white.”
Sam felt a surge of anger and didn’t try to suppress it.
“The Cheyenne blood is strong in me!” he called. “My people have fought and defeated the whites many times!”
Unlike the Navajo, he thought, who had a history of losing more battles than they had won against the invaders of their land.
More than likely, however, pointing out that fact to a proud Navajo warrior wouldn’t be the smartest thing in the world to do. But Sam was proud, too, and the impulse was strong in him.
Proud, but not a blasted fool. He was surrounded, outnumbered, and Matt needed better medical attention. Sam went on, “My friend is hurt. I ask hospitality for him.”
“And for you?”
“I go where he goes,” Sam declared, even though he couldn’t really enforce that position.
The chief—Caballo Rojo, or Red Horse, Sam recalled—spoke again, and the Navajo who had been talking to Sam turned and answered him.
The discussion went back and forth quickly for a couple of minutes. Sam understood enough of it to know the two Indians were talking about what to do with him and Matt, but he couldn’t tell what conclusion they came to.
When the spokesman turned back to him, every fiber of Sam’s being was tense with the knowledge that he might be fighting for his life, and Matt’s life, in a few seconds.
“Caballo Rojo says that you and your friend are welcome among the people of our clan,” the warrior said. Judging by the sullen expression on his face, he didn’t agree completely with that decision. “You will not be harmed, and we will help your friend if we can. This is the word of Caballo Rojo.”
Relief went through Sam. Being given the word of the chief like that meant that he and Matt were safe, at least
