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upward and backward movement was so violent that Mcallister was nearly torn from his feet. He heaved the horse down onto all fours and the animal started backing hard, rolling his eyes in terror. Mcallister dropped the line, the animal whirled, ran a few yards then halted as it started to stumble on the rein. Mcallister turned fast and went ahead.
    As he rounded a rock, he saw the pinto horse.
    It was dead.
    Mcallister looked around and the hairs on his neck went as stiff as a scared dog’s. There was a small bunch of grease-wood and the pony had fallen in it. There were two bullet holes in its side and one in its head. The flies were already gathering. Cautiously, Mcallister trod around the brush.
    Then he found the Indian.
    A strip of red flannel around the long coarse hair, a battered stetson hat lying a short way off, red shirt spotted with white torn and bloodied in two places where the bullets had entered and taken away the savage life. The powerful mouth was still wide in its last defiant yell. The man’s rifle had been broken off at the stock as he fell and the two pieces lay on either side of him.
    Mcallister looked up and found the Navajo searching the surrounding country anxiously with his eyes. The big man whistled, got the Indian’s attention and beckoned him down.
    As José slid down from his mount, he gazed at the dead Indian in amazement. Then he saw the pinto and showed his rage.
    â€œLook at those holes in his chest,” Mcallister said. “He was shot from ground level. How long do you reckon he’s been dead?”
    The Navajo took a close look at the wounds.
    â€œFour-five smokes maybe.”
    Mcallister agreed with that. He guessed that they hadn’t heard the shots because of the broken nature of the ground.
    â€œTake a scout around.”
    Mcallister searched to the left and José to the right. It was not long before the Indian’s low call brought him on the run to find José standing over clear sign. Here a man had lain in the rocks and fired a rifle. Several empty shell cases from a 30-30 rifle and a half-finished smoke, heel marks in the sand. The man had worn boots. Which proved nothing because Apaches were fond of the whiteman’s boot. After further search they found the spots where three other men had also waited. Two of them had fired. One with a rifle and the other with a belt-gun.
    â€œThese’re whitemen,” Mcallister said. The placing of the feet as they had walked away from their hiding-places showed that plain.
    They collected the horses and followed the sign till they came to where the four men had left their horses. It was a good distance from where the Apache had died, showing that they had feared that the horses would smell the Indian and give alarm.
    Mcallister squatted, the now burning sun driving into his back so that his whole body felt as though it were desiccated. He was perturbed. Why he didn’t know. Four whitemen had killed an Apache and he should be glad of that. But he wasn’t. He kept thinking of Franchon and somehow his illogical mind tied the gunman in with these men. He had nothing to go on, of course, but that was what his mind did for him.
    â€œMount up and let’s get back,” he said.
    Both men forked their horses and turned them, neither ofthem sorry to be heading back into the company of friends
    At that moment it seemed that something hit Mcallister in his right thigh and smashed it.

5
    First There was a stunning pain, then the sound of the gun echoing and booming through the gullies. The thin bay horse staggered, tried to rear and fell over on its side.
    As it hit the ground, Mcallister was doing his best to stop himself being crushed by the animal. The wind was knocked out of him and his right leg was suddenly numbed, but that instinct to survive drove him in the attempt. But it failed. He felt the crushing weight of the horse catch his foot and hold it.
    He had a vague impression of José