Ross shaken, still coughing from the smoke and unable
to sit upright, held to the mane. The gallop slowed to a rocking pace
and finally came to a halt, both horses blowing, white-foam patches on
their chests and their riders' legs.
Having made his capture, the tribesman seemed indifferent to Ross,
looking back instead at the wide curtain of grass smoke, frowning as he
studied the swift spread of the fire. Muttering to himself, he pulled
the lead rope and brought Ross's horse to follow in the direction from
which Ennar had brought the captive less than a half hour earlier.
Ross tried to think. The unexpected death of their chief might well mean
his own, should the tribe's desire for vengeance now be aroused. On the
other hand, there was a faint chance that he could now better impress
them with the thought that he was indeed of another clan and that to aid
him would be to work against a common enemy.
But it was hard to plan clearly, though wits alone could save him now.
The parley which had ended with Foscar's murder had brought Ross a small
measure of time.
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