Mr. Grimes was smiling. “I do declare, Mr. Tucket. You sure pick some mighty funny people to be horse racing with. If you were all that hard up for something to do, I might have raced you myself. You didn’t have to go and find a bunch of Crows.”

“Well, you know how it is,” Francis answered, returning the smile, though he was shaking inside and felt a little sick to his stomach. “I was getting pretty bored, just sitting around all the time. A fellow needs some action now and then.”

“Used to be that way myself, before I lost my arm. Still, I wish you’d come and ask me before you do those things.” He pointed at the Indians in the field. One of them had mounted and was heading away at a run. The mountain man shrugged. “No sense doing any more fancy shooting. One of them would be bound to get away.”

“Where is he going?” Francis asked.

“For help, Mr. Tucket. And I expect not too far, the way he’s riding. Well, you said you wanted something to do—some action. Unless I miss my guess, before long you’re going to get all the action you ever wanted. Unless …”

“Unless what?”

“Unless we run, Mr. Tucket. And stay ahead.”

“But we can’t run,” Francis said. “There are two of them left, watching us. They’d know right where we went.”

“I swear, Mr. Tucket, you’re getting smarter every day. So it appears that what we’ve got to do is get rid of those two Indians in the field.”

“We?”

“Sure. Were you figuring on doing it all by yourself?”

Francis looked out across the meadow. Two ponies stood grazing almost a mile away. But the Indians weren’t in sight. They could be anywhere, everywhere.

“How do we do it?”

“Simple, Mr. Tucket. We just walk out there until they shoot at us, then we shoot back.”

Francis suddenly remembered that his rifle was empty. He reloaded it quickly.

“All right, Mr. Tucket, let’s go. We don’t have all day.”

The mountain man started walking out across the meadow, his rifle draped casually across his shoulder. He looked for all the world as though he were just going for a morning stroll, or perhaps to hunt rabbits.

Except these rabbits, Francis thought, hurrying to catch up, aren’t like normal rabbits. These rabbits shoot back.

——— Chapter Eighteen ———

FRANCIS WOULD NEVER FORGET that morning “walk.” He was afraid, and as they walked closer to where he thought the two Indians were, he became more and more afraid. His forehead ran with sweat, and it was all he could do to keep from stopping, or turning, or yelling. But he didn’t, he couldn’t, because the mountain man was really depending on him.