Desert of the Damned by Nelson Nye Page A

to pay for his blundering.
    He believed he was beginning to glimpse the shape of this pattern. He’d been partially right. The sheriff had gone with his posse to check Reifel’s story — perhaps he’d even hoped to come up with the man whose encounter had resulted in Reifel’s wound. They could not hope to make good time toting Reifel so, having examined the hole in his chest, they’d felt safe enough in leaving him here, knowing if he’d been lying he could not get very far away without a horse. The roan, of course, must have bolted when he’d fallen. The sheriff evidently wanted to believe Reifel’s story but, in the face of Chet’s suspicions, he had decided to play safe by leaving Ben Reifel with an empty pistol — which he probably wouldn’t discover if he’d been telling the truth.
    And now the roan had come back.
    Staring at the animal Ben couldn’t quite believe it. It all seemed reasonable except the part about the horse. Ben had gotten this roan from Cy Turner at Paradise and if the horse had really bolted why hadn’t he headed for home?
    Reifel growled beneath his breath, not liking any part of it. One thing, however, wasn’t open to question. Once the posse got to Paradise it wouldn’t take the sheriff’s men long to discover he’d been lying — he ought never to have mentioned having seen Bo Breen at Turner’s. They’d probably check with Turner first to find out if Breen had been there and Turner, with that busted arm, would see quick enough how he could even things with Reifel.
    Ben started for the roan.
    All about the moon-bathed center of that thicket the wind-harried shadows loomed black as a stack of stove lids. He felt an awful reluctance to go anyplace near them. The closer he got the more nervous he became. He wished he had some oats to coax the animal out of there — even a can would have been welcome with a couple of pebbles in it. He dared not lift his voice because he still more than half believed there was a guard around here someplace.
    He tried beckoning. He bent down like he was filling a bucket. The gelding whinnied softly but he didn’t come out of the thicket.
    With sweat standing out upon his forehead like drops of rain Reifel moved in closer. He had to force himself to take each step and he was into the shadows before he saw it — the dark dull wedge of a Winchester’s stock above the gelding’s saddle.
    Reifel shuddered when he saw it. Trap smell almost stifled him. There had been no Winchester on that saddle when he’d left it; Turner hadn’t included any saddle gun with Bugler. His flesh began to writhe and crawl, but he’d gone too far to back out now.
    The empty pistol was still in his hand and he made himself keep going. He must have died a thousand deaths while he took those twenty steps through the ink-black shadows that closed in around him. Once, when a wind-fluttered branch brushed his cheek, he almost snarled in his outrage so tight-stretched were his faculties with listening for the click of a pulled-back hammer. He expected each step he took to be his last. It was torture to be throttled to this slow gait when every cringing muscle of his aching body longed to hurl him forward and put an end to this nightmare. He dared not let himself make the least motion which might spook that horse. For no matter how Bugler came to be in this thicket, Reifel knew that unless he could mount him he was done.
    But nothing happened. No one sprang from the shadows. No one called on him to halt. He reached the gelding, seized its bridle and commenced to shake so hard he couldn’t get into the saddle and had to cling there, clutching it, until the paroxysm passed. He damned near cried he was so weak but finally, without quite knowing how he did it, he found himself aboard the horse.
    He neck-reined Bugler out of the thicket and was paused at its edge, endeavoring to get his bearings when he remembered the scrap of paper — the piece which the drummer had torn from his