The Quantro Story Read Free Page A

down into the hollow on silent moccasins. The white man was sitting by the fire drinking strong black coffee from a tin cup, warming his bones after the cold night. Even before the silent Wild-Horse was ten feet away from his back, Pete Wiltshire turned his head a fraction and spoke over his shoulder.
    â€œSee somethin’, Wild-Horse?”
    The Apache grinned, tossing his hair, black as a raven’s wing, in silent laughter. One day he would catch out the white man, but it would have to be early in the morning. He reached the fire and squatted down on his heels, the game of surprising his friend forgotten as he turned his attention to the bacon sizzling in the skillet that stood on the hot rocks by the edge of the fire. Pete turned a jaundiced eye on him and the Indian pointed to the north.
    â€œBuzzard.”
    â€œIt figures.” Pete sniffed, turning a chunk of the bacon in the skillet. Wild-Horse looked at him expectantly.
    â€œEat now?” he asked.
    â€œYep. Eat now,” Pete replied, his lips barely moving in the grizzled jaw that hadn’t seen a razor since they’d ridden out to buy supplies for the camp, four days ago. He rubbed a hand across the grey-flecked stubble and thought how lucky the full-blood Indians were. They didn’t have to shave at all. Mind you, that was little consolation when you were treated like a dog by every white man who took the notion to help himself to your land. He glanced sideways at Wild-Horse’s hungry eyes.
    â€œYep. Eat now,” he repeated, doling out the hot bacon, “then we’ll ride us a piece and see what that bird’s so darned interested in.”
    Not that he needed to know what was out there. He already knew. He lifted his eyes from the tin plate and gazed thoughtfully across at the picketed horses. The buckskin stallion they’d found wandering yesterday stood out like a priest in a whorehouse among the tough Indian ponies and the pack mules. It was a well bred stallion, hands higher than the rest, a cross between an Arab and a Quarter horse by the looks. It had acquired the best of both breeds too. Speed and endurance. Of course, it looked a little the worse for wear, but then the desert did that to good horseflesh. He’d never seen the brand before. A Q with a bar over both top and bottom. BAR-Q-BAR. It could only mean it was from up in the north somewhere. Colorado?
    The saddle too. It was finely tooled, burnished leather that had seen good use, but it had obviously been made by a Master Craftsman and cost someone a good bankroll. The empty canteen was still hanging from the saddle horn and the rifle was still in the saddle boot. That was a beauty too. A prized 1873 model Winchester, caliber 44.40. They were the ones known as One of a Thousand. Rare and expensive. Whoever rode that horse knew what he was doing. Apparently he owned nothing but the best.
    Pete looked at the lightening sky. Whoever the rider of that horse was, he wouldn’t live long out there without water and his rifle. He was probably dead already. He’d been afoot since noon yesterday, but maybe not. The buzzard wouldn’t still be in the sky if he was dead. He finished his share of the bacon and scrubbed the greasy plate with a handful of sand. He sniffed. Luck was a funny thing. If that feller out there had his share of it, then maybe he was alive. If the horse had thrown him and he’d managed to crawl to some shade, then maybe, just maybe.
    Wild-Horse had already saddled his own pony and was checking the harness on the heavily laden pack mules when Pete came out from behind the scrub brush fastening his belt buckle. He walked to the paint pony and caught up the reins of the buckskin stallion as he mounted. He sniffed and settled into his creaking saddle, then nodded to the Apache.
    â€œOkay compadre , let’s ride.”
    Wild-Horse gave him one of those half smiles, then swung up on to the pony’s back, seemingly