Shiloh was on the defensive, running, wheeling to kick, once getting home
on the Pinto’s ribs so that the spotted horse squealed with pain. Shiloh
had a torn ear and a gash open on his neck. The two battlers twisted and
turned in a mad fury of movement.
Drew edged on, Colt ready. But to fire now was impossible.
The Pinto’s hoofs crashed against the saddle and Shiloh gave ground. With
a scream of triumph the wild one’s head snaked out, teeth ready to set on
the larger horse’s throat. Hopelessly, Drew shot—it was all he could do.
The white-and-red head tossed. Shiloh had wrenched back. The Pinto drove
against the gray and crashed down. It lay kicking as the larger horse hit
out with forefeet, bringing them heavily down on the Pinto. The Pinto let
out a cry of rage and pain that seemed to startle even Shiloh. The gray
backed away from his writhing enemy and stood shivering, his head
outstretched, nostrils distended. Drew fired for the second time and the
helpless kicking was stilled.
Shiloh moved, limping. Blood matted with dust stained his coat, making him
almost as red and white as the Range stud. Drew holstered the Colt and
went to his horse, crooning softly as he caught one of the chewed and
broken reins.
He was trying to examine what seemed to him terrible wounds, when Shiloh
started neighing. The Kentuckian looked back. Anse and Rennie, with
Teodoro and Chino bringing up the rear, were coming. The young mustanger
went to look down at the Pinto.
"He is dead." That was an observation rather than a question. Teodoro
knelt in the dust, drew his knife and cut loose strands of the long mane
hair.
"I shot him." Drew was more intent on Shiloh’s wounds. "He was killin’
Shiloh."
He pushed back the thought that although his horse was still on its feet,
the Pinto might have killed him, after all. Except for horses ripped by
shellfire in battle, Drew had never seen any wounds such as these. He was
deadly afraid that those two bullets had not really saved the stud.
"Let’s have a look, Chino, bring my saddlebags!" Hunt Rennie was beside
Drew. "Can you lead him back to the water hole?" he asked. "See if he’ll
walk."
Somehow they did it—Drew and Anse, Rennie and Teodoro. They coaxed, led,
supported Shiloh when they could, and brought him to the water hole. And
then they worked to stop the weakening flow of blood. Drew kept the young
horse quiet while Rennie stitched up the worst of the tears.
"He’ll do." Rennie washed his hands. "Can’t move him for some time,
though. He must have given a good account of himself meeting that murderer
for the first time. Lucky ..."
"Suh—" Drew found it difficult to face Rennie. As his anxiety over the
horse’s condition had faded, he had had time to think of something beyond
his own affairs. "I want to say thanks." He got that out in a rush before
he added the admission he must make: "I spoiled your plan to take
Kitchell."
Rennie’s dark eyes held his as they had always been able to do. Then Drew
had the odd sensation that the two of them were all alone in a place not
bound by space or time.
"Don’t say you’re sorry. If you did, I wouldn’t believe you. You made the
move you had to. If it had been Oro out there—I would have done the same."