Buck dared not push Rebel any harder. It was entirely too hot and the two of them had covered far too much ground that day to try to outrun anyone. He was tired, he was hungry and in no mood to be messed with. Buck's concerns however, didn't matter one bit to the three men chasing him.

There was a large outcropping of rocks about a quarter mile to Buck's left and he steered Rebel directly toward them. He'd have a refuge of sorts in those boulders. If he could get in a few good shots from the safety of this makeshift fortress, Buck figured he had a fighting chance of getting out alive.

Reaching the face of the outcropping, the rider skirted it's flank until he saw an opening in the rocks. Weaving through the smaller boulders he made it in about a hundred yards before the sheer walls halted his progress. Leaping from the horse's back, Buck snatched his carbine from the scabbard on the saddle and ran up into a maze of large rocks until he reached a good vantage point. The sweat began pouring down his brow as he regained his breath.

The three pursuers slowed their horses as they looked into the gap which had swallowed their prey. The men were just a tad out of reach for the stubby carbine to be a sure bet, Buck thought. He wished he had grabbed his long rifle before he left but there had been no reason to pack the extra weight. Who were these guys? he wondered. More to the point, what were these guys? They were clearly not Montoya hands. The border was at least a mile to the south. They didn't wear mongrel bandito clothes and they rode without saddles. The man on the left was clearly an Indian but his were not the cotton garments of the Apache. The man in the middle wore a sombrero which had a short brim, the likes of which Buck had rarely seen. The man on the right was the most distinctive of the three. His long hair was red, a dark red, the color of dried blood. His complexion was the same as the first man's, but a red-headed Indian was unique to Buck.

As the three men stood in front of their horses Buck squeezed off a shot. As he suspected would happen, the bullet landed short of the intended target. However, the splash of sand sent the men running for the shelter of the rocks at the foot of Buck's fortress. They were now within reach of the carbine but the rocks which provided Buck a safe haven benefitted the agressors as well. They moved from rock to rock, closing the distance, but Buck was unable to get a bead on any of them. Their movements seemed coordinated, efficient, almost graceful.

Buck knew he needed to focus on one man at a time. He pointed his sights at the boulder where he had last seen the red-haired one and held tight. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the other two move once ,then twice , then a third time. He shifted his barrel to the second man only to see the redhead leap forward two times. He swung and pulled the trigger. As the bullet slammed into the rock which the man had just ducked behind, the Indian sprinted across the opening to Buck's left. He ran like a deer. Buck's attempt to hit him in stride was too little, too late. The young man somersaulted out of sight behind the gates of the opening. Buck knew he was now in trouble. The Indian would be able to get above Buck's stand with little effort. Once he did, Buck knew, there would be no way out. If the other two were patient it would be a matter of minutes before they had him dead to rights. Buck sat back and considered his options when a realization crossed his thoughts. Not once had any of the men fired at him!

He knew Sombrero and Red were within a hundred yards. Buck gathered himself and asked loudly, "Whaddya want?"

There was a brief pause.

"Horse"

"I ain't givin' you my horse."

"Then I will take him."

The tone of the response caught Buck off guard. There was no menace in the voice, no anger. It was rather calm, matter-of-fact. He believed the man. They could've blasted him with powder and lead had they chosen to, but they hadn't. There was a chance the men didn't have any firearms but Buck discounted the idea. To act on that assumption could be suicide. He gazed over at Rebel. The old cowboy valued the animal greatly. It had gotten him out of as many scrapes as Buck had gotten him into. No. Rebel wasn't going anywhere. The thought of walking all the way back to the Chaparral and having to explain to everyone that Rebel was stolen out from under him was unthinkable.

He looked at the steep rock face to his left. If he could gain a little more elevation perhaps he might see the Indian before the Indian saw him. The devil he couldn't see bothered him more than the two he could. Buck dashed upward from rock to rock until he had gained about thirty feet . He crouched behind a rock and didn't move until he had regained his breath. Ever so slowly he peeked over the rim of the rock to try and relocate the two men below. What he saw was Rebel, his head pulled down , slowly half-stepping toward the entrance of the canyon. The feet and legs of the red-haired man were visible behind Rebel's forelegs. The man's torso was hidden behind the horse.

Buck shouldered the stubby barrelled rifle waiting for a clean shot at the man's legs. Unfortunately for Buck the redhair knew exactly what he was doing and he was doing it very well. He made sure the horse could only take half-steps, thus keeping own legs shielded. If the two could make it another hundred feet or so, Rebel would be gone for good. The old cowboy was watching his horse being stolen six inches at a time. The carbine was all but useless. It was never particularly accurate to begin with. A paper plate at fifty yards was about the most one could ask. In this situation it was far more likely he'd hit Rebel than the man behind him. Buck sat back and rested, grasping for an answer.

Buck heard a loud hiss. As he looked up, a smoky trail shot across the sky directly in front of him It arced over the sheer face to his left. Just as it disappeared from his sight there was a loud explosion and a cry from the rocks above. Buck watched as the Indian he had seen a few minutes earlier appeared in the blue sky overhead. He seemed to hang in mid-air for a second before dropping and landing on the very rock which had initially shielded Buck He was dead on impact.

As Buck turned to his right to locate the source of the missile, a small object about the size of a quail's egg came looping over the rocks. It had a red , hissing tail and once it hit the ground at Rebel's feet, it exploded. The horse reared violently and jerked the reins from the redhead. As the horse bolted toward Buck, the man jumped behind the nearest rock.

Another quail egg flew over the rocks, then another and another Each explosion pushed the redhead and the sombrero man further away from the cowboy. Buck held his fire. They hadn't shot at him, he wasn't going to shoot at them. He could hear the horses whinny down below. Rising from behind his rocky shield Buck watched the two men chase after their mounts while little rockets like he had first seen screamed and exploded all around them. At length, the men caught up to their horses and rode off without looking back.

Once the air had calmed, Buck shouted out, " I'd sure like to shake your hand, friend. " There was no immediate response.

Buck turned his attention to the body which lay before him as he picked his way down the rocks to the floor of the brief canyon. He rolled the young brave on his back and looked at the face. He wasn't Apache. Not full-blooded anyway. Not Pima, not Paiute. He didn't resemble any of the Native Tribes Buck recalled from back East. The cowboy rubbed the material of the dead man's clothing between his fingers. It was almost paper thin yet noticeably strong. Antelope. The stitching was impeccable and the fit on the man's body was like a second skin. It was an impressive garment from the hands of a very skilled person. Navajo quality, yet decidedly not of the Navajo style.

There was no holster, gun nor ammunition. Reaching across the Indian's body Buck withdrew the fallen man's knife. It was unlike any other he had ever held. It balanced perfectly in his hand and the edge glistened like mercury. The handle appeared to be mesquite but was somewhat triangular in shape unlike the hard- edged type he carried nor the rounded handles favored by the Apache. The butt was a band of silver about a half- inch thick and it held a shiny jet- black stone which Buck didn't recognize. The blade was much shorter than was common and thinner as well. The steel curved ever so slightly upward and there was a guthook on the reverse of the tip.

As Buck respectfully placed the knife back in its sheath, he sensed he was being watched. Resisting the overwhelming urge to pull his pistol he slowly turned to see a man squatting on a rock twenty feet above him. Buck's face went blank as he slumped onto his butt.

The man on the rock slowly rose until he reached his full five foot, five inch height. On his feet were sandals. Baggy cotton pants and a matching cloth blouse constituted his wardrobe. On his head sat a conical hat of woven fibers. The eyes, slanted and dark, seemed to be laughing. The round face showed the wrinkles of early middle age and the placid, relaxed demeanor was hard to miss. He held out his right hand showing three fingers. He held out his left hand and showed one. Then the man crossed his hands back and forth, one above the other. He smiled.

Buck laughed and rolled over onto his knees to stand up . When he turned around, the Chinese man was gone.