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Ballard had all the horses unloaded when Jessy returned with her four young riders. She gave each of them a specific area to cover and climbed into the saddle herself. As she reined her horse away from the trailer, she noticed Ballard was still on the ground just putting a foot in the stirrup.
“When you make your sweep north, don’t forget to check that big coulee,” she told him.
“I won’t.” Ballard swung into the saddle.
Satisfied, Jessy rode away. Not thirty yards from the wash, she came across a half-dozen cows. Already snuffy from the pungent smoke smell in the air, they spooked immediately at her approach. But they were headed in the right direction and Jessy let them go and continued along her parallel course with the wash.
She hadn’t traveled far when she was surprised by a trio of young steers that bolted across her path. Not far behind them was a cowboy on a bay horse. A faded blue bandanna sat high on his nose, filtering out the ever-thickening smoke.
The minute he caught sight of her, he pulled up and shouted, “Seen Chase?”
“Back on the fire line,” she answered. Unable to recognize him, Jessy assumed he was from a neighboring ranch.
The man sketched her a salute and loped off in the direction she indicated. Still puzzled, Jessy watched him a moment then started her horse forward. Yet she felt uneasy without knowing why. A little frisson of alarm shot through at the possibility the man had been Buck Haskell.
In a flash she wheeled her horse around and set out after him.
Smoke hung over the dry wash like a fog, burning eyes and scratching throats, but there was a blackened stretch of fire-scorched ground five feet wide on the other side. It was a good start on a firebreak, but that was all.
Like most of the men, Chase had shed his suit jacket and loosened his collar. Already the flying ash and cinders had grayed his white shirt and deposited a coating of soot along the brim of his cream-colored dress Stetson. Those with large kerchiefs had tied them across their faces, but not Chase.
He moved along the bank of the dry wash, constantly checking on the main fire, measuring its speed and distance. He knew if he could stop its advance here, the road to the north could contain it with only a handful of men, allowing him to shift the bulk of his manpower to the south.
When he paused to wipe the sweat from his face, Chase noticed a tiny tongue of flame licking through the dry grass on this side of the wash. Moving quickly, he stomped it out with the heel of his boot then slid down the bank to the floor of the dry wash, scooped some sand and gravel into his hat, carried it back up, and dumped it on the blackened patch to smother any remaining embers. Worried now, he made a quick scan for more such hot spots.
“Chase! Chase, over here!” The shouted call came from somewhere behind him and to his right. Turning, Chase saw someone wave an arm then cup his hands to his mouth and call, “My horse is down! Can you give me a hand!”
The swirling smoke made it difficult for Chase to make a visual identification, but the voice sounded like Ballard’s. Unwilling to pull anyone off the backfire to help him, Chase went himself.
When he was closer, Ballard yelled, “He’s down here.” Then he turned and half walked and half slid down an embankment. Almost immediately Chase heard the panicked whinny of a horse.
The minute he reached the gully’s edge, Chase saw the problem. The horse was lying on its side, its legs tangled in a length of the rope and thrashing wildly despite Ballard’s attempts to calm it.
“What happened?” Chase slithered down the bank a safe distance from the horse’s flailing legs.
“He stepped wrong or somethin’ comin’ down the bank. We took a tumble,” Ballard explained. “How the hell he got his legs tangled in the rope, I’ll never know. I tried to cut him loose but he damned near kicked me to death. Straddle his neck for me, will ya? And hold him down. Maybe he’ll stop fighting long enough that I can cut him loose.”
Obligingly Chase circled around to the horse’s head. “Easy, boy. Easy,” he murmured to the wild-eyed gelding, then swung a leg over its neck and carefully lowered himself onto the animal.
The horse made one frightened attempt to throw him off then subsided into shudders. “If you’re ready, I’m gonna work on the rope,” Ballard said, knife in hand.
“Go ahead.” Chase gave a sharp nod and glanced back as Ballard lowered himself onto the saddle skirt and cautiously swung a leg over the horse’s belly. Then he was out of sight.
“Look out, Chase!”
Startled by the sudden shout from atop the gully, Chase turned, catching sight of a horse and rider above him. Then something hot stabbed his side. It took Chase a split second to realize it was the knife.
The overwhelming instinct for survival numbed him to the agonizing
pain in his side. He threw himself around and grappled to seize Ballard’s knife hand.
Suddenly a shot rang out. Ballard grunted, his expression freezing in shock, his back arching stiffly. Then he sagged against Chase, fingers clutching at him for support.
Chase pushed him off, pain stabbing at his side. He put a hand to it, felt the warm wetness of blood, and looked up. Buck Haskell stood at the edge of the embankment, a blue kerchief down around his neck and a rifle in his hands, a faint trail of smoke curling from the barrel.
“Any debt I owed you, Chase, is squared now.” Buck’s mouth crooked in a near smile.
Chase was too stunned to reply. In the next breath, a rope sailed out of nowhere, its noose falling around Buck. It was tightened in a flash, and Buck was jerked off his feet, the rifle falling from his grip.
