o agreeing to the masquerade.
Drew could not recall his last really full meal. Just thinking about
food made a warm, sickish taste rise in his mouth. He brought out the
hardtack which Boyd had so indignantly rejected the night before, and
holding the chunk balanced on his saddle horn, rapped it smartly with
the butt of a revolver. It broke raggedly across, and then he was able
to crack it again between his fingers.

"Here--" He held out a two-inch piece to Boyd, and this time there was
no refusal. The younger boy's cheek showed a swollen puff as he sucked
away at the fragment.

Drew offered a bite to the Texan.

"Right neighborly, amigo," Kirby observed. "'Bout this time, me, I'm
ready to exercise m' teeth on a stewed moccasin, Comanche at that, were
anybody to ask me to sit down an' reach for the pot."

They rode on at a comfortable pace and for some reason met no other
travelers on the pike. Drew found his new mount had no easy shuffle like
Shawnee's. The gelding was a black with three white feet and a proudly
held head--might even be Denmark stock--but for some reason he didn't
relish moving in company. And, left without close enough supervision
from his rider, he tended either to trot ahead or loiter until he was
out of line. Drew was continually either reining him in or urging him
on.

"Kinda a raw one," Kirby commented critically. "He ain't no
rockin'-chair hoss, that's for sure. If I was you, I'd look round for
somethin' better to slap m' tree on--"

Drew pulled rein for the tenth time, his exasperation growing. "I might
do just that." Shawnee had been worth fifty of this temperamental
blooded hunter.

"You take Tejano heah. He's a rough-coated ol' snorter--nothin' to make
an hombre's eyes bug out--but he takes you way over yonder, an' then he
brings you back ... nothin' more you can ask."

Drew agreed. "Lost my horse back at the river," he said briefly. "This
was a pickup--"

"Tough luck!" Kirby was sincerely sympathetic. "Funny about you Kaintuck
boys ... mostly you want a high-steppin' pacer with a chief's feathers
sproutin' outta his head. They has to have oats an' corn an' be treated
like they was glass. I'd'ruther have me a range hoss. You can ride one
of 'em from Hell to breakfast--an' maybe a mile or two beyond--an' he
never knows the difference. Work him hard all day, an' maybe the next
mornin' when you're set to fork leather again, he shows you a bellyfull
of bedsprings an' you're unloaded f