"It is never well to be shot by one's friends." The mustanger achieved a half smile, stretching the skin of his gaunt young face. "Always it is better to see before being seen."
When they started he led the way to the left at a walk. Drew, aroused now, looked about him carefully. This was rough country cut by pinnacles of red and yellow rock, backed by the purple ridges of the greater heights. It was desert land, too. They had long since left the abundance of the valley behind them. Here was the stiff angularity of cactus, the twisted vegetation of an arid land.
The crack of a carbine shattered the empty silence. Drew[pg 178] pulled on reins as a second shot dug up a spurt of dust just beyond Teodoro's mount.
"Hold it! Right there."
That disembodied voice could have come from anywhere, but Drew thought it was from above and behind. Someone, holed up in the rocks, had them as perfect targets. The Kentuckian did not try to turn his head; there was no use giving the sharpshooter an excuse.
"All right, you...." The voice was hollow, its timbre distorted by echo. "Throw off your guns an' git down ... one at a time ... th' Mex first."
Drew watched Teodoro slide out of the saddle.
"Stand away from that hoss ... easy now."
The mustanger obeyed.
"Now you ... do jus' like him."