“You take the one on the right when they jump us, Mr. Tucket,” Mr. Grimes said, in his usual casual voice, as they walked. “I’ll do my best on the left one.”

So Francis couldn’t afford to let fear dominate his actions. If he froze up, or ran, it could mean the death of Mr. Grimes. If he missed, or shot a second late, Mr. Grimes would be gone.

He tried to calm down so he could watch the grass for movement, or see any signs in the soft dirt. But his fear was too real. And then Mr. Grimes stopped, held up his hand, and said, “Mind now, Mr. Tucket. They’re close. I can feel ’em.”

Francis couldn’t feel anything. All he could think was that somehow, some way, they had walked past the Indians and he would get an arrow in his back any second.

“Now!”

That’s all he heard—that shout from Mr. Grimes. From then on, everything was automatic. In front of them, not ten feet away, two painted faces and bronze chests rose. Two arrows were pulled back on taut strings. Two Indian throats let out a roaring sound.

Francis fired without aiming. He just pointed his rifle in the general direction of the Indian on his right side and pulled the trigger; then he turned and ran.

He ran until he stumbled and fell, and then he lay on the ground and was sick. Sick from fear, and sick from having fired his rifle at a man, no matter the man’s intent.

Mr. Grimes came up to him a moment later.

“Did—did I?”

“Did you shoot him?”

Francis nodded.

“Yes, Mr. Tucket, and a fair shot it was, too. It kept him occupied long enough for me to finish him.”

“You mean I didn’t—kill—him?”

“Nope. You only winged him. Creased him along the head. But it was enough to give him something else to think about till I could get in close.”

Francis sat up. The grass was still cool, but the sun felt good. Better, far better than it had a few moments before. “We did it, eh, Mr. Grimes?”

“No-ah, Mr. Tucket, that isn’t quite true. We did part of it. We still have to get out of this place before that brave comes back. And the longer you sit there, the more likely it is some brave’s gonna wind up with your hair for a dance tonight …”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Francis asked. “One of those Indians was thrown by his pony and that Indian is still around. He’ll follow us.”

“Not without a horse, he won’t. And we’re going to have their horses under beaver pelts. Now quit your jawing.”