Desert of the Damned by Nelson Nye

he would get in this country afoot. Wounded, feverish, deathly close to exhaustion, trapped and hemmed in as he was by enemies and with every man’s hand raised against him, escape would be impossible without the aid of a horse.
    It just didn’t make sense. Bugler didn’t belong in this picture. The sight of him only increased Reifel’s panic.
    After what Chet had said the sheriff — regardless of personal opinion — could not have been so foolish as to turn Reifel loose without further questioning. The posse wouldn’t have let him. Afraid to pass up the tip he’d been given he might have pressed on to Paradise to look into that tale of the yellow-eyed gunman — he might even have felt a certain urgence about it and, because of this, left Reifel here to insure speed. But he would never have left him here unguarded with no ropes on him and a horse waiting handy for him to throw a leg over.
    No one could be that much of a fool.
    Reifel’s glance raked the motionless shadows. He saw no evidence of a guard, nor any evidence either that the horse had been tied. He wasn’t tied now. You could see the reins hanging down from his bridle.
    He wondered if it were possible that when he’d pitched from the saddle Bugler had bolted.
    It was possible, perhaps, but it didn’t look a heap probable. Lafe’s men would have gone after him. Even if they hadn’t caught him the sheriff wouldn’t have left Ben Reifel unbound. He hadn’t realized, of course, that he had caught the gang’s leader, but after all that chin music Chet had flung around only a moron would have gone off and left him without also leaving someone else around to make damn sure he didn’t pull his freight.
    It would have been hard to decide which bothered him the more, the absence of a guard or the presence of Bugler.
    Anger heightened the flush of Reifel’s cheeks. None but a dimwit would fool around here when each passing instant might be fetching that posse nearer. Though he’d no way of knowing how long he had been unconscious the length of the shadows proved it had been a whole lot longer than he’d first imagined.
    He felt of his bandage and received another jolt when he discovered someone had changed it. Was it possible the sheriff had some obscure purpose that would best be served if the prisoner got away? But that was crazy — even more fantastic than the presence of the roan. The whole deal smelled of trap and his strongest impulse was to flee while he was able.
    But he had to have the horse.
    The wind was getting up again now and the round-about brush was filled with movement. The hoot of an owl drifted out of the darkness and someway, immeasurably, increased the feel of danger. He dropped a hand to his holster and the smooth cold grip of the long-barreled pistol went a long way toward reviving his confidence. Recollecting he hadn’t reloaded the weapon after that brush with Breen in Turner’s stable he slipped it from leather and, meaning to replace the spent shells with fresh loads, broke it open.
    He knew right then he’d got to get the hell out of here.
    Like most men accustomed to carrying belt guns it was Ben Reifel’s habit to pack his Colt with the hammer on an empty; this gave him five chances to get in the last word. He’d fired four shots in that argument with Breen. Yet when he shook the cartridge cases into his palm all five of them were empties.
    He ran shaking fingers over the loops of his belt but someone had fingered those loops before him. There were no cartridges.
    With a muttered curse, wet with sweat, Reifel straightened. His hands were still shaking when he flung the shells away. His eyes were wild. He whirled clear around to search the moon-gilded darkness without seeing anything he hadn’t seen before. The wind-tossed shadows of the willows seemed to laugh at him. He almost screamed in his frustration and then, except for the gnawing pain in his chest, he was cool again, accepting this as part of the price he had