Norton, Andre - Novel 15 by Stand to Horse (v1.0) Read Free Book Online Page B

quirking lips.
                   "We travel light—"
                   "Yes, sir!" Ritchie took this as permission and was away before the Sergeant could be
visited again by qualms of conscience. He made for the blanket roll which
encased his small store of personal belongings and took hasty inventory. Boots
were no good on mountain rocks; he should change into the high winter moccasins
he had bought from the Crow squaw on the march to Santa Fe . His prairie knife, with its deadly
six-inch blade whetted to a needle's sharpness, was already in its belt sheath.
As he made hurried choices, he became aware for the first time of a hot voice
behind him.
                   "So you're passing over me?"
                   "I haven't forgotten the Los Gatos affair, Sturgis. This is no expedition for
anyone who can't obey orders—"
                   "Orders! What do
you have for blood, Herndon—orderly-room ink? I know these hills—you're not the
only one who does!"
                   Sturgis, breathing fast through his nose, his
head up and his eyes very bright, was blocking the Sergeant's path. For a long
moment he waited for an answer which didn't come, and then his mouth moved
wryly before he could shape words.
                   "You icy fish! You don't know what it is to get excited over anything, do you? May the Lord
let me be there on the day that you do! "
                   He stepped aside, and the Sergeant went on.
With Sturgis directly behind him now, Ritchie did not dare to look up but
fumbled with the things he had laid out, picking them up and laying them back
as if he had never seen them before.
                   "Stand up!" There was such a whip
crack of order in the tone that he obeyed and found himself facing Sturgis eye
to eye.
                   "Yes, we're of a size. Get off those
breeches on the double!"
                   Ritchie's fingers went to the buckle of his
belt.
                   "But why? What-?"
                   "Think army issue stuff will stand up to
clambering around on rocks? Want to come back frozen stiff? Get out of those
and into these." As he spoke, Sturgis was peeling off his trousers of
buffalo calfskin, the hair side in. He fairly pulled off Ritchie's jacket and
got him into the deerskin one he had worn, adding his wolfskin cap to finish
the exchange. When Ritchie tried to thank him, he growled and slammed away in a
black mood, refusing to watch when the party pulled out.
                   They went at dusk, heading out through the
tangle of trees that masked the cave canyon, keeping close under the protection
of the rock walls. Their mounts were the sturdiest and toughest of the troop,
Ritchie having surrendered Bess for a wise-eyed black gelding that seemed to
know more about this business than did its rider.
                   How many miles they made
that night there was no way of guessing. And their winding track through
whatever cover the country provided was so twisted that Ritchie was hopelessly
lost within ten minutes of their setting out, though he had tried to follow the
advice given newcomers in the country—to fasten on some peak or landmark ahead
and hold to it.
                   Just ahead of him rode a black lump which was
Krist-land, the trumpeter, his instrument making a light spot against the dark
fur of his coat. For some reason Kristland's musical ability had won him a
place in this company. And behind Ritchie Tuttle allowed his
sure-footed riding mule to pick proper footing at the steady pace set by
Velasco who led the line.
                   Before dawn they stopped for longer than the
usual breathing spell, coming out of their saddles and rubbing down the
shivering legs of the animals. A bundled-up figure came down the line shaking
something out of a bag into each man's hand. Ritchie held the palmful of