The pinto couldn't gallop all out very far, nor did Buck ask him to. Once out of range of that long rifle, and certain that he was in fact going to be run down, Buck slowed the pinto to a more sustainable pace. The object with an express pony was that he could outdistance anything on four legs, putting on explosive bursts of speed to get himself and his rider to safety and then maintaining a canter or speedy trot to keep ahead until he either arrived at his destination or at least got away from anyone who might try running him down. The express ponies were endurance animals, not racers, and you had to ride them with a good deal of sense for horse and terrain.
It was a well trained horse too, and kept trying to turn back towards the established route as soon as the gunfire stopped and the hoof beats became distant. The pinto couldn't know or understand that doing so would get him and his rider killed, because they were being followed by someone that knew where they were going and how they were meant to get there. To turn onto the route would be to walk right into an open net lying in wait for them. Their best chance was to cut a wide arc, then come into the Ellis station from a totally unexpected direction. The pinto would in effect be running twice the distance planned for, and Buck hadn't exactly saved his horse during the first part of their run together.
He'd been thinking about getting through the run as quickly as possible, before something could go wrong, and he'd been assured that the Ellis station had a fresh horse waiting. He'd ridden with those thoughts in mind, when he should have known better. He'd let his tiredness and nerves do his thinking for him instead of his brain, and that might well just get him killed if his choices caused this pony to fold under him before he could get to that station.
The pursuers must have had some kind of relay set up, because Buck had no sooner started to angle back in the direction of the Waystation than more riders appeared ahead of him, coming at a fast clip that left no doubt as to their intention to cut him and his exhausted horse off from the relief of the station, forcing them to turn back towards the unoccupied, wide open wilderness.
Buck knew the pinto wouldn't be able to carry him much farther. Maybe a straight line to the next Waystation after Ellis, but no farther. With two sets of riders hot after him, one set chasing him directly while the other set angled to intercept, there was nothing for Buck to do but keep on running his horse in the wrong direction. He had to assume both the horses and their riders were fresher than him and his pinto, and maybe even that they knew where they were driving him to. More than a few miles off his route in either direction, Buck had little knowledge of the specific landscape, meaning that he could only ride on in hopes of seeing a rock formation or bunch of trees or series of gullies he could break for to try and lose his pursuers.
He could feel the pinto's sides heaving between his knees as the animal sucked in great droughts of air in a futile attempt to keep up with his body's demands for oxygen. The pinto's hide was slick and patchy with lather and foam had formed at the corners of his mouth. His already rough stride was getting less and less sure, and he snorted periodically when he landed on the right foreleg, leading Buck suspect he'd picked up a stone or something and hurt himself.
Unfortunately, there was no way for Buck to give the pinto a break. Not unless or until they could ride somewhere that their pursuers would not follow. Buck knew there were towns dotted all along the route, most following a river, but even though the nearest could only be a few miles away, it might as well have been a thousand because they were never going to make it. The horse would die before they got there if he didn't get a rest, and Buck had no illusions about how far he could get in this open terrain on foot. Somewhere mountainous and brush-heavy, he could drop off the horse and disappear like a ghost in fog, but there was nowhere to hide in this storm-flattened, snow-smeared plains grass.
Finally, Buck spotted a gully and turned his horse towards it. Pitching his black ears forward, the pinto gathered himself for the leap across, but Buck drew the reins in, telling him no. For the first time, the pinto let out a small squeal of protest as he realized that he was going to have to plunge down the steep side of the gully, a much less agreeable task, especially as the climbing out again would slow him down and force his sore hindquarters to work that much harder to push him out of it.
Only Buck didn't plan for him to get out. It was the only cover Buck had seen since he'd left Ft. Kearney, and it was here that he was going to have to try to make his stand. His horse was about to drop from exhaustion, meaning that his instructions to always run, and to keep on running, were no longer valid. Turning and fighting was the only chance he had left to survive, never mind deliver the mochila to his relief in Sweetwater. Maybe he couldn't win, but at the very least, he might put enough shots out there to scatter the riders chasing him, and give his pinto a tiny breather.
Maybe if the horse had been fresher, or had been familiar with this particular gully, or if there hadn't been half-melted snow and icy mud making the side of it more treacherous than it otherwise would be, it might have worked. But, as it actually happened, the pinto obediently started to shuffle down into the gully, only to lose his footing. Either he slipped or his bad leg gave under him, Buck would never know for sure. The horse squealed, bracing his forelegs, ducking his head, and going back end over front into the bottom of the gully with Buck winding up on the bottom.
Buck felt the horse go from under him, anticipated the disaster to follow, and twisted sharply in the saddle to try and get away from the horse before they should hit the ground together in order to avoid being pinned beneath it. He didn't entirely succeed, but the uneven lay of the land, the thrashing of the horse and his own eel quickness saved Buck from being crushed to death beneath the animal.
He hit the ground hard, but was immediately scrambling up, trying to get clear of the wreck. One of the horse's flailing hooves caught him at the left hip and sent him spinning, stunning him. The pinto continued to squeal, writhe, and finally righted itself. Shaking itself off, the horse waited for nothing, at once climbing back out of the gully and turning itself the right way around to reach home.
As he was trying to recollect his scattered wits and touch bases with reality through the blinding pain the horse had left him in, Buck heard a rifle shot and severe thud. With a station keeper riding along, that bunch that was after him knew the trick of getting down and riding on your horse's side to make it look like he'd lost his rider. They'd seen that pony take off, thought it was a trick, and gunned it down for nothing when all it had been trying to do was get back home where it belonged.
Rolling over and pushing himself up onto his elbows, Buck knew he'd be next if he didn't do something. But he was tired to shaking, the numbness of the cold had been punctured by the fresh agony in his hip, his head was spinning and his thoughts were dim. He could hardly remember his own name, let alone figure out what he was supposed to do to survive.
Yet, even now, he found himself looking around for the mochila. It had been knocked clean loose when the horse fell and rolled, and lay half-buried in the mud and snow only a few feet away from Buck. Knowing he was about to be overrun, that he didn't stand a chance at fighting and was probably about to be killed, Buck did the only thing he could think of to protect the mail. He dragged himself over on his elbows to the mochila, and covered it over with all the loose dirt and snow in arm's reach, then pulled himself around and crawled away from it just as far as he could get before the riders appeared over the rim of the gully, so they wouldn't know where to look for it.
It was an absolutely useless gesture, anybody could see where the horse had fallen and would know to dig around in the slush there for the mochila, but it was the only move Buck had left outside of sitting on it. At least this way, pretending he'd live long enough to do so, he'd be able to say he'd protected the mochila to the very best of his ability to the very last. He'd done the duty he'd signed on for, even if he could not complete the task, and he could be proud of that.
Rolling onto his right side, Buck made a fumbling attempt to get his gun out of his holster, realized it was a lost cause and gave it up. His hand was shaking too badly and he had almost no feeling in his fingers. The only thing he could do with that gun even if he drew it was give them a reason to shoot him, if they didn't feel they had one already. Since he had no chance of getting away, and little chance of even taking one of them out before they could get him, he decided not to give them the satisfaction of thinking they'd been in a fair fight, even for a split second. Conscience might never plague them, but he could damn well give it a reason to.
The ground under him shook from the number of hooves heading his way, the vibration causing chunks of dry winter gray, snow and mud, to rain down on him. He squinted and turned partially away from the debris, but kept the rim of the gully in the corner of his eye so he'd know when his pursuers were in view. He wanted to look Hank dead in the eye at least once before they finished him off
Four riders appeared at the edge, halting skittish horses that worried about being sent over the alarming precipice. The obvious youngest in the line drew a gun when he spotted Buck at the bottom of the gully, but the rider alongside him caught his arm before he could level the pistol at Buck.
"He may be an animal, but we're not," the older man said to the trigger-happy boy. "The shootin's over with now. Go down and fetch him."
Buck bristled at the remark, even though he understood that it had just saved his life in that moment as the boy put the pistol away. They'd chased him halfway across the country in a rifle wielding mob, forced him into this hole in the ground, shot his horse when he wasn't even on it anymore and he was the animal? It was fortunate he hadn't caught his breath and all he could do was glare, or else he might've said something he wouldn't have lived long enough to regret.
The three riders kept casual hands near their guns as the youngest grumpily dismounted and handed the reins of his horse to the man who'd stopped him from shooting Buck, before climbing down into the gully to relieve Buck of his firearm and knife.
"Get up. It's time to go," the boy said, stepping back and gesturing towards the waiting riders.
Buck had glared at the boy the entire time he was being disarmed, and followed the gesture with his eyes before turned again to glare at the boy. Actually, it was the blur he knew was the boy. He'd hit his head when he'd wrecked himself on the pinto, and his vision wasn't much at the moment.
"I said get up!" The boy grabbed Buck's upper arm and yanked him roughly to his feet.
Buck resented being grabbed at, but resisted the urge to express it. He was in no shape to win a fight, even against this kid. The boy might well have been older than Buck, actually, but his look and manner said he was still very much a child, without grownup problems or responsibilities or inclinations in that direction. He was excited to be part of this murderous band, but didn't look as if he understood the seriousness of what the undertaking actually represented.
The boy again gestured up the side of the gully, and this time the men up on the rim enforced the gesture with the slant of their heads and hands on their guns. Buck knew his options were limited and moved to obey. He tried not to show the amount of pain he was in, but his left leg didn't want to support his weight and went from under him most embarrassingly. The boy caught his arm and held him up so he didn't fall, then grudgingly aided him in going up the side of the gully. Up top, one of the men dismounted and helped haul Buck up to level ground.
His gaze involuntarily falling on the body of the pinto a few yards away, Buck lost control of himself and snarled angrily. "That was an express pony. You had no right to shoot him."
"And you had no right to steal a horse, burn a barn and commit murder, but that didn't seem to stop you," the older man who'd stopped the boy from shooting him said impassively.
Anger deepening to rage, Buck lifted his head and squared his shoulders as much as his horse-kicked condition allowed before saying in as calm a voice as he could manage, "I have never done any of those things. You have the wrong man."
"I wouldn't expect you to admit it," the man said. "Your kind never does."
So that's how it was. Buck clenched his jaw so tightly it hurt, and resolved to say nothing further. Clearly it would do no good, and anything he said would only be used against him.
"Can't we just get this over with?" asked one of the others. "I'm tired and I'm hungry and I'd like to go home to my wife. She'll be worried sick about me by now."
"I told you," the older man said firmly. "There'll be no lynching today. Not so close to Christmas. It wouldn't be proper."
Though he'd decided not to speak again, Buck couldn't help but smirk a bit contemptuously. The idea that the season or time of year had anything to do with whether or not a lynching was proper was so absurd it would have been funny if it weren't his neck that was involved.
"So what are we gonna do? If we bring him in to Ft. Kearney, they're apt to just let him go."
"Let him go?" the boy demanded in fierce objection. "Why? He's an Indian. Ain't Indians their job?"
"He's also an express rider," the older man reasoned, leaning against the horn of his saddle, "And the Army's always apt to side with them. Tend to think expressing is too important a job to let anything get in the way of it, no matter how unruly their Riders are the rest of the time."
Buck exhaled sharply and shook his head. The idea the Army would ever see things an Indian's way was beyond a joke, express rider or not.
"What's so funny?" the boy demanded, giving Buck a shove from behind that caused him to stumble.
"That's enough, Lee," the older man snapped before it could go a step further. "Tie him so he can't cause us any more trouble and then go back to town for another horse."
"Another horse?" Lee protested. "Why?"
"Because his is dead," the mob's commander explained patiently. "And we'll never get him to Ditchford on foot."
"Ditchford? What do we wanna take him there for?" Lee asked.
"It's the closest place in the state he'll get a real trial," the commander said. "Anywhere closer and they'll see an express rider. In Ditchford, they'll see him for what he is. Now get!"