with mine—”
“Get you a horse,” Jack agreed. “We’ll fetch us up some saddles and food out’n the houses here first whack —something for the trail. We’ll set off after ye’ve got a horse.”
“How ’bout the soldiers here?” Workman asked. “What we tell them?”
“Tell ’em … tell ’em go get their horses pronto, Willy. Tell Guerrero we’re gonna lead ’em to them Comanche.”
“Sun’s coming up,” Graham pointed out as Workman turned aside to speak to the Mexican officer.
The trappers turned to gaze east just as that loud cathedral bell pealed its last and the brassy horn’s final note drifted into the cold dawn. The top edge of the bright orb was just emerging over the Sangre de Cristos, every bit as red as blood. The blood of Christ, Scratch was reminded as some of them gasped at this vivid portent written there between the mountaintops and the early-winter skies—the underbellies of the cold, bluish clouds suddenly aflame with savage streaks of crimson.
“That’s a sign, by God,” Isaac whispered while the soldiers turned on their heels and double-timed it back down the rutted street toward their stables.
“Damn right,” Elbridge grumbled in agreement. “Gonna be a bloody day for them Comanche.”
Bass figured it would be a long and bloody day for them all.
That first night the Comanche didn’t stop.
Neither did the Americans and the Mexican soldiers strung out behind them on the backtrail.
Scratch thought Hatcher’s bunch was about as prepared for this endurance ride as they could have been even if they had been given an hour to make ready. The only thing that might have been better was to have themselves some more guns. The villagers dug up enough blankets and saddles for the Americans, a few gourd canteens, and some poor cloth bags filled with meager offerings of food. It touched Bass’s heart to see how these simple people, who had so little, expressed their gratitude for what risk the trappers were about to take.
As it was, the Americans made good time that day, stopping for a few minutes every couple of hours as the afternoon aged and the winter light waned and night was sucked down out of the eternal sky all around them.
Then they were alone with the land, and the black gut of night, alone with one another once more. Somewhere behind them in the dark the Mexican officer and his men were struggling to force their tired horses into the cold night. They were making a lot of noise, every clatter and voice sounding all the louder here in the dark. At first their clumsy bumbling had angered Titus, but over the long, cold hours in the saddle, he gradually figured that they just might have a chance to turn that bumbling into an advantage, one that might somehow pay off in a big way.
If the Comanche believed they were being followed by soldiers who had no real chance to catch up to them, and even if the Mexicans did catch up, there would be no way in hell Guerrero’s men could beat the warriors…. Then the trappers might just have a shot at rigging a surprise for the raiders.
There wasn’t a whole hell of a lot said among Hatcher’s men as they loped their horses north toward the foot of the hills that winter dawn, then found the wide trail of Indian ponies driving along stolen horses, cattle, and a noisy, bleating herd of sheep sweeping around to the south against the upland. The Comanche were doubling back toward the high country, turning east into the difficult terrain of the Sangre de Cristos, striking the narrow valley of Fernandez Creek itself.
Near midmorning Hatcher had called a short halt, turned around, and faced the rest of them, discovering Kinkead catching up to them on their backtrail, the Mexicans strung out down the slope behind him.
“Yonder comes Matthew,” Jack quietly told the rest as they came out of their saddles. “We’ll let the ponies blow till he gets up—then we’ll go on.”
Scratch asked, “You figger them greasers gonna stay up with us, we keep humping like this, Jack?”
“They’ll stay up.”
Then Workman added, “Any soldiers what bring in the governor’s wife and daughter—they’ll be heroes, don’t you know. That Guerrero’s gonna damn well make sure his men stay up the best they can, even if he’s gotta stick ’em with that fancy sword of his.”
For a moment they all fell quiet as the horses snorted and blew, some tearing noisily at the dry grass. A few of the men watched Kinkead approaching, others stared higher into the foothills rumpled against the high mountains.
“Those red sonsabitches going up there, ain’t they, Jack?” Caleb said it more than he asked it, for it was as plain as pewter where the Comanche were heading.
“It’s for damned sure they ain’t tried one lick to blind their trail,” Bass declared.
Elbridge agreed, “Not with all them cows and sheep they been driving with ’em.”
“Red bastards,” Hatcher growled almost under his breath. “They don’t figger no one to try following ’em.”
“Leastways no white man,” Rowland said as he eyed the ragtag formation of more than fifty soldiers struggling up the slope behind them.
Hatcher nodded in agreement as Kinkead came up, hauling back on his reins and letting out a long sigh himself. His eyes landed on Rowland, and he urged his horse over, holding out his hand.
“Johnny.”
“Matthew.”
Kinkead dragged a hand under his nose. “Damn, but it’s good to see your face.”
“The others,” Rowland started, his voice already cracking with emotion once more, “they tol’t me you figgered me for d-dead.”
Kinkead touched his own brow below the blanket cap he had pulled down over his bushy hair. “Half-dead anyway, from the looks of you. We ought’n sew that up—”
“M-maybe later,” Rowland argued. “After … after …”
Kinkead’s eyes moistened. “I’m glad … glad you’re with us to go get your Maria.”
Hatcher watched Rowland turn away, blinking his eyes. Clearing his throat, Jack used his rifle to point up the creek into the timber and rugged slopes that stood over them. “Looks like they’re run off for the highlands, Matthew.”
Kinkead squinted, peering into the hazy distance that softened the clarity of those high peaks. “A good escape.”
“Them dram-med Injuns knowed just how to make a good getaway, wasn’t they?” Isaac said.
“Damn right,” Caleb agreed, glancing back at the distant soldiers. “They knew no greaser was gonna foller ’em up there.”
“Not when most of them greasers sore afraid of a ambush,” Solomon declared.
“But we ain’t greasers,” Bass argued.
“And we ain’t afraid of them Comanche neither,” Caleb stated.
Jack nodded. “Them sumbitches ain’t counting on no one coming after ’em once they make it into the tough going, do they, boys?”
They all grumbled in solidarity.
Hatcher continued. “Way I see it, only men who can stand any chance at all going after ’em is a bunch of plew niggers like us what can ride the ass end out of Comanche pony in mountain country any day of the week. Any season of the year.”
The way he said it made Bass shudder. They hadn’t brought along bedrolls, only what poor blankets the villagers had pulled from their mud hovels, donating what little they possessed to the gringos…. Then he consoled himself: wasn’t a one of Hatcher’s men didn’t really figure on this chase lasting all that long to begin with. And right then he had the feeling they really wouldn’t be sleeping much at all until it was over, one way or the other.
For a fleeting moment Scratch felt the whimper well up inside him, feeling sorry for himself over the sleep he had lost last night by staying up to drink so damned much of Workman’s brew—that and the sleep he was bound to lose until this chase was settled, one way or the other.
But, then, a man could always catch up on his sleep, he figured, still as young as he was, what with closing in on his thirty-fifth winter. Besides, if he was given a choice, going without any shut-eye for a few days was far preferable to sleeping out eternity like the dead. Like the men he himself had rubbed out were sleeping right then. Men who did their best to put him under.
These ten were alone with their thoughts while that day grew old and the light began to muddy, then to fade
