can't stand my weight with that." Jackson slid off the roan, his eyes anxious.
"It's sure hell," he said as his expertness corroborated Sheridan's diagnosis. "You take the roan. I'll hoof it back to the ranch an' foller up hard as I can with the pinto. Or I'll trail after you with the mare. Mebbe that's better. She can make out if she don't have to pack either of us."
Sheridan looked at him, man to man.
"I'll take the roan, Red. If it was Thora, it would be different."
"Sure. Want I should shift the saddles?"
"It doesn't matter. As to your going back. . . ."
Jackson, with the roan, was nearest to the range. Across a sandy draw was a dense thicket of chayas, the fleshy columns so close as almost to touch, in some cases to merge into each other. He went to the mounting side of the roan to loosen the cinches in the double rings. A big, vividly green fly settled on the roan's updrawn haunch as it rested one foot. Red started to slap at the vicious insect, stepping back as a shot rang out from the chaya thicket. A bullet nosed its way into the nigh shoulder of the roan and out through the off, leaving a bloody hole where the missile had mushroomed. With a strange, strangling cry the roan dropped to its knees and rolled over. Sheridan's gun came out and up, poised as he looked in vain for a target. Jackson swooped for the rifle he had set against a prickly pear when he dismounted. It came up to his shoulder, aiming at the clustering chayas where his quick, resentful eye had caught sight of a glint of blue that could not belong.
