"That it's true he was sent to guide Kitchell south. That train of hosses an' loot was th' gang's prime pickin's. Some of it was to grease their way in with this hombre's patrón—don't know who he is—some Mex gineral or such. Kitchell, he rode behind because he had waited for a gringo to meet him. They was makin' up time when they heard th' fight goin' on in th' pass. Kitchell headed back here to fill canteens. Th' Mex was goin' to guide 'em south by another trail—one he knows. He's layin' it out for th' Old Man now. It's a pretty rough one; they'd have to take it slow. Could be we could catch up before Kitchell makes it—'specially since he don't have this Mex leadin' him now."
When it was necessary Rennie could move fast. He was on his feet giving orders almost before Anse had finished the translation. Their party was to be split in two. Drew and Anse were to stay with the wounded Mexican and Shiloh, and prepare to defend the water hole if the outlaws made a second attempt to come in. The rest of them would ride for an already designated rendezvous point where they would meet the party sent to trace the fugitives.
"Why do I stay, suh?" Anse protested when Don Cazar had finished.
"You can tend that arm better on the ground than in the saddle."
"Ain't no hurt there any more." Anse hurriedly pulled it from the sling. "Anyways, that ain't m' shootin' hand, neither!" But one look at Hunt Rennie's face reduced him to muttering.
Drew watched their preparations quietly. Then he[pg 207] gathered up two canteens and filled them at the water hole, went back to loop their carry straps over Hunt Rennie's saddle horn. Anse had a bad arm, so it was right that he should not go chasing hell-for-leather over rough country. But Drew Rennie—he was left because he was useless in another way. He was a man who could not be depended upon, who had sprung their trap because he cared more for a horse than he did for the success of Rennie's mission.
And in a way Hunt Rennie was perfectly just in that judgment. If it were all to do over again, Drew knew he would make exactly the same choice. Shiloh was his—about the only good thing he had ever possessed, or might ever have in the future. If, in order to keep Shiloh, he had to give up what he knew now was a very vague dream—he would surrender the dream every time.
Although he knew that was the truth, the Kentuckian was desperately unhappy as he made a lengthy business of adjusting the canteens. About the worst words one could ever speak, or think, were "too late." This was all too late—twenty years too late. They might have had something good together, he and Hunt Rennie. Now it was too late.
As Drew heard the crunch of boots on gravel close behind him, he swung around. "Full canteens," he blurted out. And then, ashamed of his own confusion, he forced himself to look straight at his father. "Good luck, suh."
"We'll need it. I'm leaving you José—he'll do some prowling. Wouldn't do for you to be jumped by Apaches. If we don't come back in three or four days and Shiloh's able to travel, you take the Mexican and head back to the Stronghold—understand? I mean that."