him.

"... dead. Get on after the others!"

The words made no sense. He was cold, wet, and there was a throbbing
pain beating through him with every thrust of blood in his veins. But he
could breathe again and if he lay very still, his nausea eased.

Then he heard it--not quite a bray, but a kind of moaning. The sound
went on and on--shutting everything else out of his ears--to hurt not
flesh, but spirit. He could stand it no longer.

With infinite labor, Drew turned his head. He felt the rasp of grit on
the skin of his burned cheek, and that small pain became a part of the
larger. He opened his eyes, setting his teeth against a wave of nausea,
and tried to understand what had happened to him.

Water washed over his legs and boots, numbing him to the waist. But his
arms, shoulders, and head were above its surface as he lay on his side,
half braced against a rock. And he could see across the stream to the
source of that mournful sound.

Hannibal was struggling to get to his feet. There was a wound in his
flank, a red river rilling from it to stain the water. And one of his
forelegs was caught between two rocks. Throwing his head high, the mule
bit at the branches of a willow. Several times he got hold and pulled,
as if he could win to his feet with the aid of the tooth-shredded wood.
Shudders ran across his body, and the sound he uttered was almost a
human moan of pain and despair.

Drew moved his arm, dully glad that he could. His fingers seemed
stiff--as if his muscles were taking their own time to obey his
will--but they closed on one of the Colts which had not been shaken free
from his holster when he fell. He pulled the weapon free, biting his lip
hard against the twinges that movement cost him.

Steadying the weapon on his hip, he took careful aim at Hannibal's head
and fired. The recoil of the heavy revolver brought a small, whistling
cry of pain out of him. But across the stream, the mule's head fell from
the willows, and he was mercifully still.

The sky was gray. Drew heard a snap of shots, but they seemed very far
away. And the leaden cold of the water crept farther up his body,
turning the throb into a cramp. He tried not to cry out; for him there
would be no mercy shot.

The rising tide of cold brought lethargy with it. He felt as if all his
strength had drained into the water tugging at him. Again, the dark
closed in, and he was lost in it.

Warm ... he was warm. And the painful spasms which h