Free The Searchers by Alan LeMay Page A

ought to go and uproot that desolate twist of wood, or whittle it down, and
     so master the thing forever. But even to move toward it was somehow impossible to him, to a degree that such a move was not
     even thinkable. He returned to Amos feeling shaken and sickish, unstrung as much by doubt of his own soundness as by the sense
     of evil prophecy itself.
    The sun was setting when they saw Brad again. He came pouring off a long hill at four miles, raising a reckless dust. “I saw
     her!” he yelled, and hauled up sliding. “I saw Lucy!”
    “How far?”
    “They’re camped by a running crick—they got fires going—look, you can see the smoke!” A thin haze lay flat in the quiet air
     above the next line of hills.
    “Ought to be the Warrior River,” Amos said. “Water in it, huh?”
    “Didn’t you hear what I said?” Brad shouted. “I tell you I saw Lucy—I saw her walking through the camp—”
    Amos’ tone was bleak. “How far off was you?”
    “Not over seventy rod. I bellied up a ridge this side the river, and they was right below me!”
    “Did you see Debbie?” Mart got in.
    “No, but—they got a bunch of baggage; she might be asleep amongst that. I counted fifty-one Comanch’—What you unsaddling
     for?”
    “Good a place as any,” Amos said. “Can’t risk no more dust like you just now kicked up. Come dark we’ll work south, and water
     a few miles below. We can take our time.”
    “Timer
?”
    “They’re making it easy for us. Must think they turned us back at the Cat-tails, and don’t have to split up. All we got to
     do is foller to their village— ”
    “Village? You gone out of your mind?”
    “Let ’em get back to their old chiefs and their squaws. The old chiefs have gone cagy; a village of families can’t run like
     a war party can. For all they know—”
    “Look—look—” Brad hunted desperately for words that would fetch Amos back to reality. “Lucy’s there! I saw her—can’t you
     hear? We got to get her out of there!”
    “Brad,” Amos said, “I want to know what you saw in that camp you thought was Lucy.”
    “I keep telling you I saw her walk—”
    “I heard you!” Amos’ voice rose and crackled this time. “
What
did you see walk? Could you see her yellow hair?”
    “She had a shawl on her head. But—”
    “She ain’t there, Brad.”
    “God damn it, I tell you, I’d know her out of a million—”
    “You saw a buck in a woman’s dress,” Amos said. “They’re game to put anything on ’em. You know that.”
    Brad’s sun-punished blue eyes blazed up as they had at the pothole water, and his tone went soft again. “Thee lie,” he said.
     “I’ve told thee afore—”
    “But there’s something I ain’t told you,” Amos said. “I found Lucy yesterday. I buried her in my own saddle blanket.
     With my own hands, by the rock. I thought best to keep it from you long’s I could.”
    The blood drained from Brad’s face, and at first he could not speak. Then he stammered, “Did they— was she—”
    “Shut up!” Amos yelled at him. “Never ask me what more I seen!”
    Brad stood as if knocked out for half a minute more; then he turned to his horse, stiffly, as if he didn’t trust his legs
     too well, and he tightened his cinch.
    Amos said, “Get hold of yourself! Grab him, Mart!” Brad stepped into the saddle, and the graveljumped from the hoofs of his horse. He leveled out down the Comanche trail again, running his horse as if he would never
     need it again.
    “Go after him! You can handle him better than me.”
    Mart Pauley had pulled his saddle, vaulted bare-back onto the sweaty withers, and in ten jumps opened up all the speed
     his beat-out horse had left. He gained no ground on Brad, though he used up what horse he had in trying to. He was chasing
     the better horse—and the better rider, too, Mart supposed. They weighed about the same, and both had been on horses before
     they could walk. Some small magic that could not