Taken By A Texan. Lass Small

And it began to shiver.

      The water was too cool for the dog.

      Concerned, Tom carefully went toward the dog. It didn’t try to get away. It watched, shivering. But it wouldn’t get out of the water. It lapped some and shivered.

      It tried to bark, to communicate, but its throat was raw from the lack of water and a long journey.

      Tom took out his cellular phone and called in to the house. “This is Tom.”

      “It’s Joe,” came the answer. “What’s up?”

      “An exhausted, dehydrated dog just came in off the upper flats. He’s in the stream but he isn’t yet drinking much.”

      “Is anybody following him?”

      Tom looked around again out to the edge of forever. “Not that I can see.”

      “I’ll bring some of the boys out and a couple of tracers,” Joe suggested. “If he’s available, it might help if Rip goes up in the plane and looks around. We’ll have him land out by you so he can find the dog’s tracks. Keep in touch. If the dog should leave, go along but let us know.”

      “Right.”

      “We’ll be along as soon as possible.” That had a meaning of immediate commitment.

      And quite sure there was need, Tom said, “Thank you.”

      The answering reply was a serious, “Yeah.”

      Slowly, Tom began to move toward where the dog was. If the dog stayed put, he was probably used to people. But Tom knew he’d never get the dog to stay close. It wasn’t looking for a place but for help.

      How strange that Tom felt that so clearly.

      He watched the dog and told it, “You need to get out of that water and shake yourself dry so’s you won’t chill.”

      The dog shivered.

      Tom unsaddled his horse and took the blanket off. “Come here, boy. I’ll help you. You chill, you’ll get really sick. Who’ve you left out there? Where are they?”

      The dog lapped several times. Then he went to the edge of the water ın the shallows and shook himself hard, sending water flying everywhere. It was as if he’d understood Tom’s words.

      Tom said, “Let me just put this blanket on you.”

      The dog became careful. He watched but he was not at all sure the man should come closer.

      Tom backed away and put the blanket aside.

      Tom took note of the slight indentations of the dog’s arriving paw marks. How far across the plain could the prints be followed? How far had that dog come?

      Would the dog have come to the stream directly? Or would he have circled, looking for a habitation? Looking for people.

      Tom listened for the plane.

      A plane would cover the area much quicker. If the dog was that dehydrated, so would be whoever the dog had left out there, on the tableland.

      One

      Rip Morris landed the range plane near Tom Keeper with casual finesse. He was a casual man, lazy-eyed and aloof. He was also one hell of a pilot. He had eyes like a hawk. He could spot anything...even if it couldn’t move.

      As Tom went over to the two-seater, exposed-cockpit plane, Rip was throttling it down. He pushed up his goggles and lifted the flaps on his helmet. He needed a shave. That wasn’t unusual.

      Tom tersely said, “I think there’s a person out there that this dog is worried about. How about you taking the dog up and go slow enough that the dog just might know where you are and where he’s been?”

      And Rip regarded the medium-sized dog, who was mostly black with some white, with a measured look. Get the damned dog aloft, Rip thought, and it would probably throw up, or see something and jump out. No sweat. It was the dog’s funeral.

      So with some effort and no help from Rip at all, Tom got the dog in the front cockpit. Tom suggested, “You might just go along low and slow and see how the dog reacts.”

      Rip nodded once as he said, “Wait here.” He revved the engine and took off.

      

      Rip flew the plane low and slow, allowing him to follow the dog’s trail on the ground. The trail did circle, but the plane was by then up high enough that Rip could see farther.

      Remarkably, the dog didn’t try to jump out, but its attention was riveted. Then, from the back cockpit, Rip noticed that the dog wasn’t looking along the way, its attention was ahead. They went quite a way, even flying. Then the dog’s head moved in little adjustments.

      Way ahead, there was a tiny spiral of buzzards.

      The dog barked.

      It turned and barked again at Rip. But under the distant spiral of waiting buzzards, Rip had already seen the speck-sized, floundered horse with a person trapped underneath it. Rip throttled down and did a low, slow circle. The buzzards rose higher, and Rip had the room he needed to land.

      The horse did not move. The trapped person raised a feeble hand. Well, hell. Whoever it was under that horse was still alive but probably damn near dead.

      But the dog was smart enough not to jump out yet. He squeak-barked down at the still horse and the raised arm—and he stayed in the plane. But he squeak-barked back at Rip as if to tell him to land.

      Rip gave the dog an enduring glance. He then turned the plane, easing it down slowly in a wide circle so as not to stir up too much dust in the low grasses.

      As he turned, Rip called in to the ranch, telling exactly where he was and to call Tom Keeper. He was told he needed to release the guy from under the horse without hurting him worse. Rip said he’d see if he could do that while he waited for the other planes to get there. Yeah, he had extra water.

      Rip’s disgruntled mind wondered why the hell that guy was out there in that empty area with only a horse and a dog. People are stupid. It only takes one stupid nut to tie up the whole area looking for him. Rip remembered that was how Jones had crashed, looking for some dumb pilgrim who didn’t know enough to pay attention to where he was. At that time, the storm was such that the flooding land pockets on the plain could drown a man.

      After saving the damned pilgrim, Jones’s spirit had probably just trudged on off to heaven feeling he’d done his share. He would’ve had no hostility about stupidity like Rip Morris was grinding his teeth over, right then, for another pilgrim out—alone on a plain—and trapped under a dead horse.

      If he’d had somebody with him, he wouldn’t have been this bad. On top of all that, he had invaded private land without permission.

      With skill, Rip landed the plane downwind so that no dirt blew over the motionless horse or the man.

      The dog was out of the cockpit first. It went to the man, sniffed and looked up at Rip urgently.

      Rip got the water bag and went carefully to the man who was trying to speak. His tongue was swollen. His leg was trapped under the dead horse.

      Rip took out a clean handkerchief and soaked it to lay it on the man’s mouth. Then he dribbled water onto it as he talked, soothing, telling the man that others would be there shortly.

      And they were. Planes landed downwind. They avoided the buzzards and did as Rip had done. The men came with ropes and pulled the dead horse away with care. They talked to the man who was, by then, covered with blankets so that he wouldn’t chill further.

      The injured, dehydrated man was put on a stretcher, carried to the cargo plane and put inside. The dog tried to get into the plane, but Rip held him.

      The dog hoarsely tried to bark, not fighting or growling but lunging in Rip’s firm grip. It just showed that Rip knew animals. He talked gently the