ON THE CHISHOLM TRAIL
From the sweeps of high country bordering close upon Santa Fe, it was no easy journey to the Chisholm Trail, even for a trail-eating horse of Blizzard's caliber. But The Kid had taken his time. His ultimate destination, unless fate altered his plans, was his own homeland—the sandy Rio Grande country.
More than anything else, it was the thirst for adventure that led the buckskin-clad rider to the beaten cattle road which cut through wilderness and prairie from Austin to the western Kansas beef markets.
And now, after following the trail for one uneventful day, Kid Wolf had left it—in search of water. A line of lofty cottonwoods on the eastern horizon marked the course of a meandering stream and The Kid had been glad of the chance to turn Blizzard's head toward it. Horse and rider, framed in the intense blue of the western sky, formed a picture of beauty and grace as they drummed through the unmarked wastes. The Kid, riding "light" in his saddle, his supple body rising and falling with the rhythm of his loping mount and yet firm in his seat, dominated that picture. His face was tanned to the color of the buckskin shirt he wore, and a vast experience, born of hardship and danger on desert and mountain, was in his eyes—eyes that were sometimes gray and sometimes steely blue. Just now they were as carefree as the skies above.
A stranger might have wondered just what Kid Wolf's business was. He did not appear to be a cow-puncher, or a trapper or an army scout. A reata was coiled at his saddle, and two big Colts swung from a beaded Indian belt. No matter how curious the stranger might be, he would have thought twice before asking questions.
The horse, in color like snow with the sun on it, was splitting the breeze—and yet the stride was easy and tireless. Blizzard, big and immensely strong, was as fast as the winds that swept the Panhandle.
The stream, Kid Wolf discovered, was a fairly large creek bordered with a wild tangle of bushes, vines, and creeper-infested trees. It was no easy matter to force one's way through the choked growth, especially without making a great deal of noise.
But The Kid never believed in advertising his presence unnecessarily. He had the uncanny Apache trick of slipping silently through underbrush, even while on horseback. The country of the Indian Nations, at that time, was a territory infested with peril. And even now, although he seemed to be alone on the prairie, he was cautious.
Some distance before he reached it, he saw the creek, swollen and brown from rains above. So quiet was his approach that even a water moccasin, sunning itself on the river bank, did not see him.
Suddenly the white horse pricked up its ears. Kid Wolf, too, had heard the sound, and he pulled up his mount to watch and listen, still as a statue.