The gray light of early morning was waning and the morning sun was just beginning to peak above the far off eastern horizon.
The Kid awoke, feeling the rock ledge beneath his back. His eyes fluttered open once, twice, then fixed wide open as he came fully awake.
He sat up quickly and leaned his back against the rock wall behind him. He glanced to the right and saw the Indian pony tethered where he had left him hidden in a cleft between two rock walls. There was a tuft of grass in there and the mustang was cropping at it.
The cleft was a good place to hide the horse, but there wasn’t enough room in there for The Kid too, so Laredo had climbed out on a ledge and lay hidden behind a large boulder.
Having ridden most of the remaining night and losing himself in the canyons of the high country, Laredo had finally satisfied himself that he had eluded the war party and found this place to hole up and get a little sleep.
He knew there was still a risk that the war party could find him, but he had not seen any sign of them for quite some time. Hopefully, they had been on a mission of some sort that was of enough importance to preclude them from spending too much time searching for him.
Laredo’s clothes were still damp from the night before, but the rising sun was starting to warm him and his clothes were beginning to dry.
His throat ached and his mouth was dry. His stomach felt a bit queazy for he had had nothing to eat or drink for almost a full day.
The Indian pony pawed at the rock beneath his feet. The meager tufts of grass were completely gone, now and he was probably still hungry too. For sure he must be thirsty.
The Kid pushed himself to his feet and sauntered over to the horse. “Well son,” he said with a huskiness in his voice. “Let’s you and I go find something to eat and drink.”
He untied the pony and led him out of the cleft and passed the ledge out onto the trail that led down the mountainside.
The sun rose higher behind them, casting their shadows long ahead of them.
By midmorning they had left the mountains behind them and had found a valley with lush green grass and a fair sized stream running through it. The water was clear and cold. The horse drank deeply and The Kid, holding the neck rope, lay on his stomach half in and half out of the water upstream of the mustang.
The water was good and Laredo relished it. He was still drinking when the pony had his fill and started to pull away, turning back toward the grassy bank. The Kid felt the tug on the rope and rolled half sideways, his shoulder dipping into the running stream. He reached up to grasp the rope with both hands.
Just as he rolled, an arrow whizzed past his face, between him and the horse and splashed into the water, its tip sinking deep into the streambed and its feathered end sticking up out of the surface of the water.
The Kid let go of the rope and rolled sideways, a complete turn, as two more arrows plowed into the ground where his body had just been.
As he rolled, he pushed himself up onto one knee, pulling his pistol from the holster, simultaneously, and fired in the direction the arrows had come from, without even focusing on a target.
He was still firing as he arose to his feet in a half crouch. The sight of four Comanche braves on horseback flashed before him; their war cries mingling together in a cacophony of sound that only muted in Laredo’s head.
The brave in the lead took one of The Kid’s slugs directly in the chest. He leaned backwards on the pony’s back, his bow flying from his grasp into the air and he somersaulted the rest of the way backward pitching him to the ground as his pony ran out from under him.
More arrows splashed in the water on both sides of Laredo. He turned and ran upstream, his boots splashing water above his knees, and firing behind him as he went, without taking time to aim.
After several steps, he dived across the stream landing on the far bank and rolling behind a large rock. An arrow drove into the loose stones behind him and another one whizzed over his head just as he ducked down behind the rock.
The remaining three braves had their mounts in the water now; sunlight shimmering off the droplets of water as hooves splashed water chest high against the horses bearing down on The Kid fast.
Laredo reached out around the side of the rock and took deliberate aim at the lead redskin. He squeezed the trigger and the brave fell from the horse, splashing into the stream. His horse veered off toward the other bank and the brave’s two companions rode on past him without breaking stride; their horses’ hooves kicking the floating body aside.
The Kid shifted his aim toward the closest rider and squeezed the trigger. The hammer fell on an empty chamber and clicked. Laredo glanced at the useless weapon, then back to the riders bearing down on him. No time to reload. He stood and stepped out from behind the rock, throwing the useless weapon at the first brave’s head.
The brave pulled his horse up short, water sloshing in a wave before him. He tilted his head to avoid the flying projectile but his timing was a little slow and the pistol hit him solidly in the temple. He loosened his hold on his bow and dropped it, just as The Kid plunged back into the water, reaching up and grasping the warrior’s arm and pulling him from the horse’s back. The brave half fell and half dove on the white man. They both fell with a heavy splash into the running water as the rearing horse splashed on by, narrowly missing them both.
The Kid and the brave rolled together over the rocky stream bed and came up as one; each grasping the other’s arms and wrestling hand to hand. The brave finally slipped loose from Laredo’s grasp. His brown arms lifted and his huge hands shot forward like lightning; his steely fingers clamping around the white man’s throat and squeezing it in a vice like grip.
The Kid gasped for breath and tried to hold onto the warrior’s shoulders, at the same time, but he felt a wave of dimming vision and his own arms felt like rubber.
The brave steadily, pushed Laredo downward and backwards. The Kid’s knees began to buckle and he felt his strength waning. The Comanche’s painted face loomed before his hazy eyes. Fire burned in the warrior’s dark eyes, his jaw set firmly, his lips pursed in a grim determined line.
Sunlight flashed in The Kid’s brain and the world was spinning around him. His ears filled with pressure and all surrounding sound began to fade as he felt the impending onslaught of unconsciousness.
Somewhere in his brain, he detected the flat sound of a faraway rifle shot. It failed to echo in his fog, but somehow he was aware of the splashing in the water beside him and the churning caused by the flailing hooves as an empty backed horse plunged past him.
His body had buckled at the waist and he felt himself practically sitting in the water. The vice like grip tightened around his throat, his tongue lolled out of his mouth and darkness was closing in around him.
The dull flat report of a rifle sounded again, this time more faintly, but he felt the grip on his throat loosen.
Somehow, in his brain, the image of the brave before him seemed to freeze in time. A surprised look spread across his painted face. The brave straightened to full height. His eyes were wide and glazed over, staring blankly forward. A dark ringed hole appeared in his forehead. Then a stream of bright red blood dripped out of the hole and the warrior fell backward into the stream with a heavy splash that waved over The Kid as the warrior fell.
The cold water splashing against Laredo’s face brought a rush of blood back into his paled face. He swallowed a lungful of water before rolling over onto his back, fighting to pull himself into a half sitting position and shoving his head above the water; choking, coughing, and gasping for air. Water splashed into his eyes and he fell back into the water, face upward, nose barely above the surface as he finally succumbed to the blackness of unconsciousness.
A rider emerged from the edge of a stand of trees and rode forward slowly and steadily into the stream bed. He was a tall, thin man wearing a long black duster and a broad brimmed black hat. He held his Winchester rifle high, the stock resting flat on his right thigh with the muzzle of the weapon poi
nting skyward. A wisp of smoke still whirled above the end of the rifle barrel.
The rider maneuvered his black gelding around the two red skinned bodies lying in the stream. The water was now streaked red with blood. He pulled the horse to a halt beside the fallen white man and gazed down on him with dark, black, piercing eyes that matched the heavy black brows above them. Long black hair peeked out from under the black hat and a patch of black stubbled beard covered the lower half of his narrow face.
The Kid moved ever so slightly in the water. The rider booted his rifle and dismounted.
It was well after noon when the man on the black horse reined up to an almost halt; the gelding still stamping in place, chomping at the bit. Then, angling the horse to the left, he guided the animal into a stand of cottonwood trees. There was shade in there and a patch of grass for the horse.
The rider slid himself a little father back toward the gelding’s rump and hitched himself to the side in order to give Laredo room to slide from the saddle.
The man in black had pulled The Kid out of the stream and revived him. Without wasting time for introduction or explanation, he had helped The Kid into the saddle on his black gelding. The Kid’s stolen pony had already run off with the other braves’ horses. The tall man then, climbed on behind him, holding his arms around The Kid while maneuvering the reins and headed north at a trot.
Laredo had regained his senses and his strength was fast returning by the time he slid from the saddle. He half staggered to the base of a cottonwood tree and dropped into a sitting position, his back propped against the tree trunk.
His Stetson, hanging by the strap, between his shoulder blades, crushed against the bark of the tree. The Kid leaned forward and pulled the hat around to hang it across his chest. He leaned back, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply for several minutes.
When he finally opened his eyes again, he saw the tall man was already at work starting a small fire with dry twigs, creating a smokeless flame. The gelding was tied to a tree, several feet away, and was cropping at a patch of fresh grass.
When the tall man finished with his work, he looked up and saw The Kid watching him with alert eyes. He picked up a canteen and was unscrewing the cap as he walked forward and squatted before The Kid. He let the cap drop, hanging from its strap attached to the canteen, and pushed it forward toward The Kid.
Laredo eagerly grabbed at it, pulling it sharply out of the man’s hands, shoved the opening to his parched lips, tilting his head backward and sucking in huge, rapid gulps until the man reached out and pulled it away; jerking it out of The Kid’s hands.
The Kid glared at him, momentarily, forgetting his appreciation for the man’s help.
“That’s enough for now, son,” the man said with a calm, kindly voice that belied the darkness of his features.
“Rest a little and you can have some more, later.” He stoppered the canteen and dropped it next to him.
He arose and went back to the campfire and rummaged through a canvas grub bag and retrieved a can of peaches. From his pocket he pulled a folding knife. He opened one of the blades and set the can on the ground. He plunged the blade into the top of the can, ran it around the edges until he had cut enough tin to bend the top upward and back.
He, then, carried the open can to The Kid and handed it to him, so he could take it in his left hand while accepting the knife in his right.
Laredo took them both eagerly, plunged the knife into a thick piece of peach and fed it to himself. His eyes closed momentarily as he relished the taste and the coolness of the fruit. He swallowed it, opened his eyes and attacked another piece hungrily. Slice after slice he shoved them into his mouth, his cheeks bulging out holding more than one piece at a time.
He ate eagerly until the fruit was gone. Then, he held the can high, turned it upside down and drank the juice; his Adam’s apple sliding up and down as he gulped.
When he finished, he set the can down, leaned back against the tree and looked up at the man in black as if it were the first time he had seen him.
“Excuse my manners, Mister,” The Kid said. “I’m much obliged to you.”
The tall man’s face was impassive as he stared down at Laredo. “I’ve got some beef jerky too,” he said. “Not very tasty, but it’ll give you strength. I’ll put on a little coffee. You can use the stimulant. Then we’ll move on.”
“Haven’t seen any Comanches lately,” The Kid said as the man returned to the campfire and retrieved some jerky from the grub sack.
When the man returned, he squatted before The Kid, handed him a strip of the dried beef, and kept one for himself. He chewed on the end of it as he watched The Kid devour his.
“They don’t usually range this far north,” the man said in answer to Laredo’s previous comment. “But, seeing as how we can’t be sure of that, it’s best we move on as soon as possible. Just in case they are still around. When they find their brothers lying back there in that stream, that’ll make them madder than ever.”
The Kid told him how he had stolen one of their horses and killed a brave doing it.
“All the more reason we get moving,” the man in black said
*****
Chapter Four