Ambush by Luke; Short Page A

raised, as if to deliver a blow.
    With swift decision, Brierly moved toward him, hearing behind though, the pounding of feet crossing the parade ground.
    And then, too late, he saw what he was facing. Even as he saw, he felt a searing pain in his side and groin, and knew he was falling backwards. He fell heavily, just as two shots came in rapid succession from the veranda. He heard Lieutenant Storrow shout, “All right he’s down, he’s down,” and wondered why a man would call that, and to whom.
    He reached down to his side where the pain was deepest and his fingers touched steel, and then Captain Wolverton was beside him, kneeling, a pistol in his hand. There were other people there, too, but Brierly’s attention was not on them. He felt the steel, the shape of it, and then he knew why there was pain in his groin also.
    Wolverton said, “Easy sir, easy.” He bawled out. “Lantern here!”
    Brierly said calmly, then, “Pull it out, Wolverton. You can’t carry me with a pitchfork sticking out of me.”
    Just before dawn, where the Craig road crossed a dry wash floored with splintered red boulders, Captain Loring ordered a halt for rest and food. The far bank held enough scattered mesquite for fires, and from this point on, the tangled mesas to the east would press closer, demanding an increased alertness.
    Loring, even so, put out guards here, and the men started small fires to cook their bacon. There was the promise in the hazy dawn that the day would be blazingly hot, and Loring passed needless word to Sergeant Mack that he wanted to start with half-canteens after breakfast.
    It was a subdued bunch of troopers, the whiskey worked out of them, that sprawled on the ground; talk was sparse, and apt to be sharp, and Harcourt’s corporal driver, a downy-cheeked tee-totaler, talked with Frank Holly and smugly watched their silent suffering.
    Returning from picketing his own and Linus’ horse, Ward rounded the rear of the Daugherty wagon in time to hear Loring say to Sergeant Mack, “—if there’s a lame one report it to me. It’s apt to be a slack time, right after pay, Sergeant.”
    â€œThat I know, Captain,” Sergeant Mack replied gravely. There was no faint hint of mockery in Mack’s tone; but in his eyes was a sardonic gleam, an able man’s protest at being told his job. Loring wheeled away and came over to the wagon, his shirt already blotting perspiration. Captain Harcourt had a precarious seat on the Daugherty wagon’s step, watching Linus pour coffee in a thick cascade into a grimed pot.
    â€œEasy, Linus,” Loring said. “You’ll have the stuff thick as gravy.”
    Linus eased off, poured water from his canteen into the pot, and set it in the fire. As Ward slacked down against the rear wheel, Linus glanced over at him. His young face was somber; then a faint smile touched it and he said, “You’re a hell of a looking guide. In that suit, you look like you’re going to a dance.”
    Ward drawled, “I’m here for the ride, and you don’t pay me, so damn your opinion.”
    Linus smiled briefly, and then his face was somber again, and Ward thought, It’s last night and Riordan. He doesn’t know how to say it . And then he thought irritably, I don’t believe , yet he wondered.
    Loring sank to the ground with a sigh and said, “I ate too much last night. This heat’ll be murder.” He looked at Ward, a kind of impersonality creeping into his dark eyes, his face. Loring was not, Ward knew, either forgetting or forgiving his refusal to help Ann Dunnifon. “Kinsman, what are the prospects of turning up ’Pache sign?”
    Frank Holly had strolled up to the group by how, and at Loring’s question, he too eyed Ward.
    After a moment’s thought, Ward answered. “Pretty good, maybe on the way back.”
    â€œHow so?”
    Ward shrugged. “Diablito will