Free Kill McAllister by Matt Chisholm Page B

same pace as before.
    Trig said to Mace: “The damned fool’s killing the horses. They’ll have no run left in them when we most want it.”
    Mace growled: “You tell him that.”
    Trig grinned briefly: “You think I’m crazy or somethin’?”
    Two hours after dark, they halted. Trig reckoned they weren’t so far from the herd, that is if the drovers had kept the direction they had been on yesterday.
    Forster gave orders to off-saddle and sleep. “Trig,” he said, “pick yourself a fresh horse and go find that herd.”
    Trig said: “Maybe I can find the herd an’ maybe I can’t. But how the hell do I find you again? There’s quite a bit of country around here.”
    Forster’s voice showed his edginess.
    â€œYou do it, Trig,” he said shortly.
    Trig found himself a fresh mount, put his saddle on it and swung up. He didn’t like the chore ahead of him. He had ridden some on the plains, but he was far from being an expert plainsman. He thought his chance of finding the herd in the dark was small and finding his way back to this spot nil.
    Grotten came up to Forster.
    â€œCaptain,” he said, “maybe I should go along too. I have my compass.”
    Forster agreed. “But make it fast, Dice. We have to be in position by dawn.”
    â€œDo my best.”
    Grotten found himself a horse that had been led throughout the day and switched his saddle to it. Trig led the way west through the darkness. When they had gone a half-mile, he turned in the saddle and told Grotten: “This is the craziest thing I ever saw, Dice. What chance do we have of finding the cows in this?”
    Grotten said: “We can’t pick up signs in this light for sure, so we’ll have to go on sound. The Texans’ll be singing to the cows. Cows make a noise.”
    â€œBut they could be anywhere within twenty miles of here.”
    â€œGet on,” Grotten said abruptly. “Talking won’t help any.”
    They pushed on through the dark. Soon they were riding through bright starlight. After a while, they were riding through moonlight and they felt a little easier. Every now and then they stopped and listened, but they couldn’t hear anything.
    â€œI reckon we’re wastin’ our time,” Trig opined.
    â€œWe better not be, by God,” Grotten said.
    Dawn found them still searching. Both their tempers were bad; Grotten because he knew they should be back in camp with the information the captain wanted and he had never failed his leader; Trig because he had known all along they were on a wild goose chase and he could have spent the night snug in his blankets.
    An hour later from the top of a ridge, they saw something dark moving on the surface of the prairie, a mass of animals drifting slowly over the grass.
    Grotten said: “That has to be cows.”
    â€œGoing east?” Trig said sarcastically.
    â€œThey could have turned east.”
    â€œMore likely buffalo.”
    They pushed on north, riding down from the ridge and losing sight of the herd of whatever it was. On the next rise they still could not make out what the animals were. They had to ride for another thirty minutes before they saw that they were indeed buffalo. They stopped their horses and stared at them in bitter disappointment.
    â€œWhat now?” Trig demanded.
    Grotten said: “They could be drifting away from the Struthers’ outfit. Look over yonder in the west. Isn’t that more buffalo? Maybe the Texans went clean through the buffalo and split them. Let’s go ahead a little and have a look.”
    They rode to the west of the nearest buffalo and headed north. After a while, Grotten pointed to the ground in front of them and halted his horse.
    â€œLook at that. That’s cow sign,” he said. “They’re heading north. Over there – that’s the ruts made by wagon-wheels. By God, we’ve found