ch
the Stronghold, and that is the truth."

"This is also truth, _padre_." Faquita came to the fire and picked up the
coffeepot, pouring the thick black liquid into the waiting line of tin
cups. "It is time for us to finish and be on the move--not to just talk of
what must be done."

Drew looked up in surprise. The girl was wearing breeches, ready to ride.
In addition, instead of the gunbelts which all the men wore as a matter of
course, Faquita had tucked a pair of derringers in the front of her sash
belt. Their small grips showed above the faded silk folds.

"She goin' with us?" the Kentuckian asked, as the girl kicked dust over
the campfire and stowed the empty pot in the cart. "Ain't that
dangerous--for her?"

Hilario got to his feet with a lurch that made his crippled state only too
plain. "_Senor_, to hunt the wild ones is dangerous. You see me, twisted
like a root, no? Not tall and straight as a man should be. This was done
by the wild ones--in one small moment when I was not quick enough. Among
us--the mustangers--it is often the daughters who are the best riders. They
are quick, eager, riding lighter than their brothers or their fathers. And
to some it is a loved life. With Faquita that is true. As for danger--is
that not always with us?

"In war danger is a thing which one man makes for another. In this country
the land itself fights man--war or no war. A cloudburst fills an arroyo
with a flood without warning, and a man is drowned amidst desert sand
where only hours before he could have died for lack of that same water.
There is a fall of rocks, a fall of horse, a stampede of cattle, sickness
which strikes at a lone traveler out of nowhere. Yet have you not ridden
to war, and come now to live on this land? _Si_, we have danger--but a man
can also die in his bed in the midst of a village with strong walls. And
to everyone his own way of life. Now we ride...."

They did indeed ride, following a trail which, as far as Drew could see,
existed only in the minds of the mustangers. But the three Mexicans swung
along so confidently that he and Anse joined without question or argument.

At a distance they circled the waiting pen with walls of entwined brush
and sapling, ready to funnel driven horses into a blind canyon. The
Pinto's band must be located, somehow shaken out of the rocky territory
their wily leader favored, before that drive could begin. Water, Trinfan
said, would be the key. Horses must drink and