Novel 1966 - Kid Rodelo (v5.0) by Louis L’Amour Page B

her, looking into her face. Then he bent his head and kissed her, lightly, on the lips. “There…when the times comes, that may help.”

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    A T NO GREAT distance, at a place where the basalt had faulted, Hat lay in a niche in the rock. It was a place where he was sheltered from the cold wind, and high enough above the sand so that he had a good view of the camp with its red, winking eye marking the fire. He could distinguish occasional movement near the horses, or about the camp.
    They were standing watch, of course. He had expected that. In fact, he had expected about everything that had happened thus far. There was not much a running man could do when he got into the Pinacate country. The only difference was that someone here knew about the water holes.
    He knew now who it was. It was simply a matter of reading the sign right, seeing who scouted in the right directions. It was the man with the new boots…Rodelo.
    They were carrying something they could not have had when they left the prison, and it was too heavy to be supplies. He had seen the tracks of the pack horse that carried it, and he had seen where it rested at night.
    Hat had his own plans, but they were not new. He had used them many times before, and they had been successful. He had never attacked until they reached the dunes or the beach.
    Here, among the broken lava flows around Pinacate, there were too many sheltered places. They could defend themselves too well, and usually they were still in shape to put up a stiff fight. He could wait until the dunes and drift sand broke their spirit. None of them carried much water, and that was his first target.
    His plan was simplicity itself. Get them out in the dunes. They would have had little to eat or drink, and if their horses had lived this far they had reached their limit. There was shelter in the dunes for him and for his warriors, and they could move easily. The escaped prisoners would be trying for the coast, and he would edge them back from it, make them struggle among the dunes until the last of their water and the last of their strength was exhausted. After that, it would be easy enough.
    Usually they died among the dunes, but occasionally one or two would reach the shore. Then he would push them toward one of the two or three poisoned springs nearby, keeping them away from those where fresh if slightly brackish water might be found. Several of the escaped prisoners in the past had been dead before he shot them…the bullet hole was evidence of his capture.
    Hat was curious, as all Indians were inclined to be. Now he was wondering if the man with the new boots knew about the other water holes. Which side of the Pinacate would he take? He had an idea it would be the eastern side, away from the volcanic vents and the lava of the western slope.
    Hat now had eleven warriors with him, all eager for the hunt. Four were Yaquis, one an outlaw Pima, and the others of the Yuma tribe. All but one had ridden with him before, although at different times.
    With such a number he could herd the escaped prisoners like sheep, firing a bullet when necessary to turn them back, edging them away from the easiest routes, winning his final victory and the gold merely for a long ride into the desert. It amused Hat to consider that. Yet he had a moment of doubt…There was that one with the new boots…he was a cunning traveler, like a prairie wolf. Would he find another way?
    But eventually he must turn to the dunes. Of course, if he held to the line of mountains he could reach a point where the ride to the water would be shorter. If he tried that, they must head him off.
    Hat was first of all a hunter, and as such, he was interested in what his prey might attempt. He was not worried. After all, they were amateurs in the Pinacate country; he was the professional. One last reservation he had…the Pinacate itself might take a hand in the game.
    The old gods lurked among the mountains, this he knew, and the Pinacate was a place