“What you got in your craw, Jimmy?”
“Somebody sneaked in a while ago and stole your horse, Dag.”
Dag came fully awake. He stood up and looked at Gough as if he had lost his senses.
“Nero?”
“Yeah. I heard some whickering over in the remuda a few minutes ago. I got up and went over there. I saw some tracks and got curious, so I did a head count. It wasn’t no Injun, for sure. Somebody wearin’ boots come up and stole Nero. He was the onliest horse what was took.”
“Damn it, Jimmy. What do you mean it wasn’t an Injun?”
“Tracks are plain, Dag. The man was afoot and he wore boots.”
Dag dressed quickly and strapped on his six-gun. “Maybe you’re mistaken, Jimmy. Let’s take a look. Show me them tracks.”
The two walked to the remuda, where all the horses were hobbled and grazing on the sparse grasses. Jimmy led him to a bare spot where there were two sets of tracks. Dag recognized Nero’s hoofprints. And the man’s tracks were definitely not Indian: bootheels gouged into the ground, a clear outline of the soles. The tracks led away from camp, to the north.
“Can you read tracks, Dag?” Jimmy asked.
“I can sure as hell read these. We got us a horsethief, Jimmy.”
“But who? There ain’t no ranch within miles of here from the look of the land.”
“Well, I’m damned sure goin’ to find out. Let me pick out a good horse and saddle up. I’ll find the bastard.”
“In this country, you need a horse with good legs and bottom. How about that little sorrel gelding, Firefly? You rode him before.”
“Yeah. I’ll saddle up Firefly, get some grub, and light out.”
“You ain’t plannin’ on trackin’ by yourself?”
“It’s only one man’s tracks I see here, Jimmy.”
“Yeah, but . . .”
“But what?”
“Could be a whole passel of outlaws where he’s a-goin’.”
“I’ll think about it.”
By that time, Flagg and some others were up. Fingers had the breakfast fire going and coffee boiling. Dag had given Flagg the oilskin map the night before and he knew Jubal had stayed late by the fire, studying it.
He told Flagg what had happened and that he was going to track the horsethief.
“You better take somebody with you, Dag. Somebody who’s as good a shot as you are.”
“Why?”
“You know who you’re goin’ after, don’t you?”
“No, I wish I did.”
The two walked over to the remuda so that Flagg could study the tracks. “I recognize those boots,” Flagg said. “You’re going to be trackin’ a skunk.”
“That ain’t no news. Any horsethief’s a skunk.”
“Yeah, Dag, but this one goes by the name of Don Horton.”
Dag let the news sink in. Why hadn’t he come to that same conclusion? Horton, of course.
“Yeah, Jubal. He stole Nero for a reason, didn’t he?”
“He sure as hell did. He don’t want the horse, Dag. He wants you.”
Dag felt as if someone had slammed him in the gut with a sixteen-pound sledgehammer.
Chapter 21
Dag wanted to know how Flagg recognized the bootprint as Horton’s.
“He cut the sole on a boot scraper,” Flagg said, “nicked the sole, just before we left Deuce’s.”
“I saw the nick,” Dag said, as he finished saddling Firefly.
“I ought to be going with you, Dag. Could be dangerous.”
“I’d rather you stay with the herd, Jubal. I’m taking Lonnie with me.”
Even as he said it, Lonnie Cavins rode up on a sorrel gelding, Socks, fifteen hands high with four white stockings and a blaze face—a strong young, horse, with a sound chest. Lonnie had a Sharps carbine jutting from its scabbard and wore a Colt six-shooter in .45 caliber. Another pistol dripped from the saddle horn, a matched Colt. He looked, Dag thought, with his beard and unruly hair clumping from under his hat, like a dirty pipe cleaner all covered with soot. He was as lean and as homely as a dried string bean, but the man was quietly fearless and could use each and every weapon he had close at hand. His pale blue eyes betrayed no emotion.
“Good choice,” Flagg said. “Cavins can shoot with the best.”
“They called him ‘Dead Eye’ in the war,” Dag said.
“You boys better take some grub with you, and make sure your canteens are filled. Oh, here comes Jo now.”
Jo came over with two paper packages. She handed one to Cavins, one to Dag.
“Some hardtack and jerky,” she said. “Felix, be careful, won’t you?”
In that mysterious grapevine that seemed to have no source or conveyance known to mortal man, half the camp knew about the stolen horse and who the thief was. Men walked up to wish them luck. Their faces blurred as Dag acknowledged them, impatient to start tracking Horton. Tracks aged, he knew, and it could rain and the wind could come up and wipe out all trace of Nero and Horton.
“We’re going, Jubal. Thanks, Jo. I’ll be seeing you.”
“Goodbye, Felix,” she said, her voice choking up on her so that she had to bite her lip and turn her head.
Dag turned his horse and he and Cavins rode out, following the clear tracks on the ground as if they were markers on a map. For some reason, he did not wave goodbye.
“Vaya con Dios,” Flagg said, as he watched the two ride out on the hunt for Horton.
The tracks led them over hard ground, but were easy to follow. Dag kept looking ahead and on both sides of the game trail Horton had taken. The landscape was bleak, rocky, strewn with several varieties of cactus and islands of grass.
“At least we got the sun at our backs,” Cavins said.
Dag turned to him and put a finger to his lips to indicate silence. Cavins nodded, and they continued for another half hour or so. The land started to rise, and the only sound was the ring and clank of their horses’ iron shoes on stone.
Then, as they were starting up the shallow slope, Cavins reached over and touched Dag’s shoulder. He pointed straight ahead to the top of the knoll.
Dag swallowed hard. There, lit by the sun, his black hide glistening with shots of brilliant light, stood Nero, standing hip shot, gazing down at them, his ears stiff and twitching, his tail flicking at flies.
A rifle shot shattered the silence like the crack of a bullwhip. The sound reverberated in every direction and hung in the air with ominous echoes. Dag felt as if someone had driven a dagger into his heart as he saw Nero go down. The horse kicked its legs for several seconds, then stiffened and lay still.
Dag swore under his breath.
Cavins jerked his carbine from its boot and hunched down in the saddle.
It took Dag a moment to get his bearings. It just wouldn’t sink in, that fateful moment when Nero twitched from the shock of the rifle bullet and went down. He shook his head.
Cavins ticked his horse’s flanks with his spurs and started forward, up the slope.
“No,” Dag whispered, drawing his pistol. “Don’t go up there, Lonnie. That’s what the bastard wants.”
“Damn it, Dag!”
“Take a wide circle to the right. I’ll circle left. Did you hear where the shot came from?”
“Way off to the left.”
“That’s what I thought. Horton is waiting up there, somewhere. He’s hid out and he’ll pick us both off if we show up top of that rise.”
“Why don’t I circle left with you, then? No use in me going right.”
“You’ll make a full circle and we might come at him from two sides. Watch yourself, hear?”
“I’ll see you,” Cavins said, and turned his horse to the right.
Dag let him get some distance before he backed Firefly down and started making his wide circle. He was breathing hard, his heart hammering in his chest. He choked back tears as he thought about Nero up on the hill, his beautiful mane rustling in the breeze, his tail flat and lifeless, fanned out on the ground like a stain.