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been shod with steel.
    McAllister, the Navajo and von Tannenberg squatted in the dust of the yard and considered that.
    â€œIt looks as if they belong to a bigger party. Gato’s men lifted the horses from Fort Craddock. Is your man sure that they were Indians and not whitemen?”
    Mcallister knew the answer, but out of politeness put the question to José in Spanish. Yes, they had been Apache all right. They were the men Mcallister had met in the corral. He had no doubt in his mind.
    â€œWhat we want to know,” Mcallister said, “is how manyIndians are there and do they mean to hang around this neck of the woods?”
    â€œThey tried for these horses,” von Tannenberg said.
    â€œSo that looks as if they still want saddle-stock. And that means they’ll hang around. What is easier for ’em than a nice slow wagon-train?” He stood up. “I’ll go take a look around.”
    George Rawlins came up.
    â€œThat Franchon’s missing,” he said.
    Mcallister and the officer looked at each other. Mcallister laughed—
    â€œLooks like the Apache could save me a chore there.” But he didn’t like the sound of that and he thought about it as he made his way into the corral to catch up a horse.
    He got his saddle out of a wagon, bridled and saddled a lean bay, and yelled for somebody to fetch his rifle. George brought the old Henry rifle and shot it into the saddle-boot. José caught up a mule and got on its naked back and they trotted out of the yard. As he went, Mcallister glanced over his shoulder and saw the woman on the stoop, staring after him. The sight touched a chord of softness in him and he hastily dismissed it. He couldn’t afford softness; he’d given that up long ago when he’d buried his wife after she had been cut down by a stray bullet from the gun of a cowhand on the spree six years back.
    He and the Navajo picked up the tracks five minutes ride from the house and found little trouble in following them. After a while, they saw that the retreating Indian mounted on the pinto had swung north and left the trail of the three incoming ponies. He had taken the three riderless animals with him, driving them loose ahead of him.
    â€œBueno”
José grunted. “He goes slowly.”
    â€œHe can’t afford to lose those horses.”
    They lifted the horses to a canter and felt the heat of the day hit them. Within fifteen minutes, the country dipped and broke and Mcallister saw that a hundred yards ahead of them visibility would be cut down to a few yards in places. This he didn’t like. They both halted and the horses blew.
    José said: “I think now we go with great care.”
    â€œOr,” Mcallister amended, “we go back.”
    The Navajo nodded eager agreement.
    â€œJosé,” Mcallister said, “I have a hunch we’re still upagainst just one Indian. You think if you was to get up on that high ground there, you could cover me?”
    â€œSeguramente.”
    â€œGood. Get going then.”
    José turned his mule and kicked it into action, sending it bounding up the steep broken grade and staying on its bare back like a limpet. Mcallister dismounted, caught the line in his left hand and started forward, making as little noise as he could on the sandstone under his feet. The marks of the four horses were plain in front of him for about two hundred yards, then they stopped abruptly. Mcallister looked up at José and signalled to him that the sign had petered out. He pushed on, thinking that the Apache must indeed have been in a desperate hurry to have left a plain trail for so long.
    Unless there was a catch in it and he was leading Mcallister into a trap. Could be.
    He pulled the Remington from his belt and kept his thumb on the hammer. He had an idea that when he had to shoot, he’d have to make it as quick as he had ever done in all his life.
    Suddenly the led horse reared and whinnied. The