“You want to run, you jughead?” Pete turned northward and drummed his heels against the horse’s ribs. He had no spurs. “Then damn you, run!” He lashed the animal’s shoulders again.

Scully had trouble keeping up. He struggled to tie the sack of food with his saddle strings while his own mount jumped a ditch and galloped after Pete’s. “For God’s sake, Pete . . .”

Pete let his horse run a mile or so before he slowed to an easier lope, then a long trot. Scully caught up, complaining as usual. “You’re goin’ to kill these horses.”

“Never let a horse think he’s boss or he’ll take advantage of you every time.”

“How far back do you reckon the army is?”

“Wasn’t nobody left but that lieutenant, and he took my bullet in his shoulder.”

“But there’s them Monahans, especially that James. And Rusty Shannon. They’d kill us on sight, give them half a chance.”

Pete growled, “I wish you’d shut up. You tryin’ to turn me into a coward, too?” Scully’s fears were beginning to get to him, though he hoped it did not show. Scully would probably go limp as a rag doll if he saw that Pete was weakening. What little strength the man had left, he was borrowing from Pete.

Pete kicked his horse back into a lope. “Since you’re so damned scared, we’ll pick up the pace.”

After a time he began to sense his horse’s stride becoming more labored. He knew he should slow down, but Scully’s fear was infectious.

That next hill yonder, he thought. We’ll stop and look back when we get to the top of it. If we don’t see anybody, we’ll rest the horses.

His horse never made it to the hill. He stepped in a badger hole and went down, slamming Pete to the ground. Pete arose on hands and knees, struggling for breath, coughing at the dust in his throat.

Scully was frightened. “You hurt, Pete?”

“I’m all right. Catch my horse. Don’t let him get away.”

“He ain’t goin’ noplace. He’s crippled.”

The animal limped heavily, favoring its right forefoot. Pete was dismayed. “Damned stupid horse!” He was angry enough to shoot the animal, but his rifle lay on the ground where the fall had spilled it. Legs wobbly, Pete walked over and picked up the weapon. He saw that the barrel was clogged with dirt. Firing it would be dangerous. It might explode in his hands.

Scully was long-faced. “What we goin’ to do now? Your horse ain’t fit to go on. If we try to ride this one double we’ll break it down before we get to the river.”

Pete quickly made up his mind. “We won’t ride it double. Get down, Scully.”

“Get down? What for?”

“Because I said so.” He swung the rifle’s muzzle toward his partner. “Get down.”

Scully reluctantly complied. “What’re you fixin’ to do?”

Pete took the reins from Scully’s hand and swung into the saddle. “I’m takin’ your horse.”