-to bring up half
the horse holders as reinforcements--was a question.

However, he was never to deliver that message, for the horse lines had
been stampeded by the first wave of flying men. Here and there a holder
or two still tried to control at least one wild horse of the four he was
responsible for, but there were no reserves for the fighting line.
And--Drew glanced back--no battle to lead them into if there were.

Men and horses were struggling, dying in the river. The bridge ... he
gaped at the horror of that bridge ... horses down, kicking and dying,
barring an escape route to their riders. And the blue coats everywhere.
Like a stallion about to attack, Shawnee screamed suddenly and reared,
his front hoofs beating the air. A spurting red stream fountained from
his neck; an artery had been hit.

Drew set teeth in lip, and plugged that bubbling hole with his thumb.
Shawnee was dying, but he was still on his feet, and he could be headed
away from the carnage in that water. Drew, his face sick and white,
turned the horse toward the railroad tracks.

"Drew!"

Croxton? No, but somehow Drew was not surprised to see Boyd trying to
keep his feet, being dragged along by two plunging horses, their eyes
white-rimmed with terror. The only wonder was that the scout had heard
that call through the din of screaming and shouting, the wild neighs of
the horses, and the continual crackle of small arms' fire.

"Mount! Mount and ride!" He mouthed the order, not daring to pull up
Shawnee, already past Boyd and his horses. The roan's hoofs spurned
gravel from the track line now. And Boyd drew level with him and mounted
one of the horses, continuing to lead the other. There was a cattle
guard ahead to afford some protection from the storm churning along the
river.

"Where?" Boyd called.

Drew, his thumb still planted in the hole which was becoming Shawnee's
death, nodded to the guard. They made it, and Drew kneed the roan closer
to the extra horse Boyd led, slinging his saddlebags across to the other
mount. Then he dismounted, releasing his hold on the roan's wound. For
the second time Shawnee cried, but this time it was no warrior's protest
against death; it was the nicker of a question. The answering shot from
Drew's Colt was lost in the battle din. He was upon the other horse
before Shawnee had stopped breathing.

"Come on!" Drew's voice was strident as he spurred, herding Boyd before
him. Two of them, then three, four, as