CHAPTER XXXI“DON’T YOU LIKE ME ANY MORE?”
Harshaw’s rangers caught up with the militia an hour later. The valley men were big, tanned, outdoor fellows, whereas the militia company was composed of young lads from Colorado towns, most of them slight and not yet fully developed. The state troopers were, however, brisk, alert, and soldierly. Some of them were not used to riding, but they made the best of it with the cheerful adaptability of American youth.
The trail of the Indians cut back across the mesa toward Utah. Evidently they were making for their home country again. Bob began to hope that the Utes would reach the reservation without a fight. In this desire the owner of the Slash Lazy D heartily joined. He had no impulses toward the slaughter of the tribal remnants.
Others of the party did not share this feeling. Without going into the causes of the Indian troubles, it can safely be said that the frontiersmen generally believed that the tribes were dangerous and not to be trusted. In any difficulty between a white and a red man they assumed the latter was to blame. Many old-timers held that the only way to settle the Indian question was to exterminate the tribes or at least reduce them to impotence.
The pursuers followed a hot trail. Twice they had a brush with the rear guard of the flying Utes, during which Bob heard bullets singing above his head. Hefelt a very unpleasant sinking in the pit of his stomach, and could hardly resist the temptation to slip out of the saddle and take refuge behind the horse he was riding.
The rangers and the soldiers reached Bear Cat long after dark. Dud and Reeves had ridden into town ahead of their companions, so that when the rest came in they found a hot supper waiting for them on the plaza.
June helped serve the weary men. Big fires had been built on the square and by the light of the flames Bob could see her slim figure flitting to and fro. Afterward, when the meal was at an end, he saw Dud Hollister walking beside her to the hotel. The cowpuncher was carrying a load of dishes and supplies. It would have surprised Bob to learn that he was the subject of their conversation.
For the first time Dud had heard that day from Blister the story of the mad dog episode. He made June tell it to him again from her viewpoint. When she had finished he asked her a question.
“Anybody ever tell you about the fight Bob had with Bandy Walker?”
The light in her dark eyes quickened. “Did they have a fight?” she asked evenly, with not too great a show of interest.
“I dunno as you could rightly call it a fight,” Dud drawled. “Bob he hammered Bandy, tromped on him, chewed him up, an’ spit him out. He was plumb active for about five minutes.”
“What was the trouble?”
“Bandy’s one o’ these mean bullies. He figured he could run on Bob. The boy took it meek an’ humble fora week or so before he settled with Bandy generous an’ handsome. The bow-legged guy might have got away with it if he hadn’t made a mistake.”
“A mistake?” repeated June.
“He had a few remarks to make about a young lady Bob knew.”
June said nothing. In the darkness Dud made out only the dusky outline of her profile. He could not tell what she was thinking, had no guess that her blood was racing tumultuously, that a lump was swelling in the soft round throat.
Presently she asked her companion a question as to how Jake Houck came to be with the rangers. Dud understood that the subject was changed.
The soldiers found beds wherever they could. Some rolled up in their blankets near the fires. Others burrowed into haystacks on the meadow. Before daybreak they expected to be on the march again.
The bugle wakened them at dawn, but a good many of the cowpunchers were already up. Big Bill went to one of the haystacks to get feed for his horse. He gathered a great armful of hay and started away with it. A muffled voice inside wailed protest.
“Lemme out, doggone it.”
Bill dropped the hay, and from it emerged a short and slender youth in uniform. He bristled up to the huge puncher.
“What d’you think you’re doing, fellow?”
The cowpuncher sat down on a feed-rack and laughed till he was weak. “Drinks are on me, son,” he gasped at last. “I ’most fed you to my hawss.”
“Mebbe you think because I ain’t as big as a house you can sit there an’ laugh at me. I’ll have you know you can’t,” the boy snapped.
“Fellow, I’m not laughin’ at you. Napoleon was a runt, I’ve heard tell. But it was comical, you stickin’ yore head up through the hay thataway. I’ll stand pat on that, an’ I ain’t a-going to fight about it either.”
The soldier’s dignity melted to a grin. “Did you say drinks was on you, Jumbo?”
After Big Bill had fed his horse they went away arm in arm to see what Dolan could do for them in the way of liquid refreshment.
Just before the rangers and soldiers saddled for the start, Dud jingled over to his friend who was helping to pack the supply-wagons.
“Lady wants to see you, Bob. I’ll take yore place here,” Dud said.
Dillon lifted a barrel half full of flour into the nearest wagon and straightened a body cramped from stooping. “What lady?” he asked.
“Listen to the fellow,” derided Hollister. “How many ladies has he got on the string, do you reckon?” The fair-haired cowpuncher grinned. “You meander round to the back of the hotel an’ I expect you’ll meet up with the lady. Mollie Larson she—”
“Oh, Mrs. Larson.” For a moment a wild hope had flamed in Bob’s heart. His thoughts had flashed to another woman in the hotel.
“Why, yes. Mollie runs the hotel, don’t she? Was you lookin’ for some other lady to send for you?” Dud asked innocently.
Bob did not answer this. He was already striding toward the hotel.
Out of the darkness of the adobe wall shadow a slim figure moved to meet the ranger. The young fellow’s heart lost a beat.
“I—wanted to see you before you left,” a low voice said.
A kind of palsy came over Dillon. He stood motionless, no life in him except for the eloquent eyes. No words came to help him.
“I thought—maybe—” June stopped, hesitated, and came out impetuously with what was in her mind. “Aren’t weevergoing to be friends again, Bob?”
A warm glow suffused him. The back of his eyes smarted with tears. He started to speak, but stopped. For he was boyishly ashamed to discover that he could not trust his voice.
“Don’t you like me any more?” she asked. “Have I done something to make you mad?”
“No, you haven’t.” There was a rough edge to the words, put there by suppressed emotion. “You know better ’n that. I keep away from you because—because I acted like a yellow dog.”
“When you fought Bandy Walker to keep clean my good name?” she asked in a murmur.
“Oh, that!” He waved her question aside as of no importance.
“Or when you fought the mad dog in the street with yore bare hands?”
“You know when, June,” he answered bitterly. “When I let Jake Houck walk off with you to save my worthless hide.”
“I’ve forgotten that, Bob,” she said gently. “So much has happened since. That was foolishness anyhow, what—what we did in Blister’s office. But I hate to give up the boy on Piceance Creek who was kinda like a brother to me. Do I have to lose him?”
There was no need for her big dark eyes to plead with him. His face was working. He bit his lip to keep from breaking down. This was what he wanted more than anything else in the world, but he was embarrassed and irritated at the display of emotion he could not wholly control.
“’S all right with me,” he said gruffly.
“Then we’ll be friends again, won’t we?”
“Ump-ha!” he grunted. “I—I’d just as lief.” He recognized this as cavalier and added: “I mean it’s awful good of you.”
“When you come back you won’t forget to ask for me if I’m not where you see me. I’ll want to hear all about what you do.”
“Yes,” he promised; and in a burst of gratitude cried: “You’re a dandy girl, June. If you treated me like I deserved you’d never speak to me again.”
She flushed. “That’s silly. I never did feel thataway. Lots of times I’ve wanted to tell you that—that it needn’t make any difference. But I couldn’t, ’count of—what we did in Blister’s office. A girl has to be awful careful, you know. If we hadn’t done that foolish thing—”
“A judge’ll fix you up with papers settin’ you free, June,” he told her. “I’ll do anything to help that you want.”
“Well, when you come back,” she postponed. Talk on that subject distressed and humiliated her.
“I got to go,” he said. “Good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
She gave him her hand shyly. Their eyes met and fell away.
He stood a moment, trying to find an effective line of exit. He had missed his cue to leave, as thousands of lovers have before and since.
“Got to hit the trail,” he murmured in anticlimax.
“Yes,” she agreed.
Bob drew back one foot and ducked his head in a bow. A moment later he was hurrying toward the remuda.
CHAPTER XXXIIA CUP OF COLD WATER
The pursuers caught up with the Utes the third day out from Bear Cat. It was in the morning, shortly after they had broken camp, that Houck and Big Bill while scouting in advance of the troop jumped up an Indian out of the sagebrush.
He made across the mesa toward the river. Houck fired at him twice as he ran, but the sentinel disappeared from sight apparently unhit. The sound of the firing brought up rapidly the main body of the troopers. Before Major Sheahan and Harshaw could work out a programme another Indian sentry could be seen running through the sage.
The sight of him was like that of a red rag to a bull. Not waiting for orders, a dozen punchers instantly gave chase. The rest of the party followed. Houck was in the lead. Not far behind was Bob Dillon.
The mesa bench dropped sharply down a bare shale scarp to the willows growing near the river. The Indian camp below could be seen from the edge of the bluff. But the rush to cut off the Ute was so impetuous that the first riders could not check their horses. They plunged down the bare slope at a headlong gallop.
Bob heard the ping of bullets as they sang past him. He saw little spatters of sand flung up where they struck. As his horse slithered down on its haunches through the rubble, the man just in front of him divedheadlong from his horse. Bob caught one horrified glimpse of him rolling over and clutching at his breast. Next moment Dillon, too, was down. His mount had been shot under him.
He jumped up and ran for the willows, crouching low as he sped through the sage. Into the bushes he flung himself and lay panting. He quaked with fear. Every instant he expected to see the Utes rushing toward him. His rifle was gone, lost in the fall. The hand that drew the revolver from his belt trembled as with an ague.
Only a few of the riders had been unable to check themselves on the edge of the bluff. The others had now drawn back out of sight. A wounded horse lay kicking on the slope. It was the one upon which Bob had been mounted. The huddled figure of a man, with head grotesquely twisted, sat astride a clump of brush. Another sprawled on the hillside, arms and legs outflung.
Below, in the sage not far from the willows, another body lay in the sand. This one moved. Bob could see the man trying to hitch himself toward the shelter of the river bushes. Evidently he was badly wounded, for he made practically no progress. For a few minutes he would lie still, then try once more to crawl forward.
The popping of guns had shifted farther to the right. Bob judged that the rangers and soldiers were engaged with the Indians somewhere on the ridge. Only a few desultory shots came from the camp. But he knew it would be only a question of time till some Ute caught sight of the wounded man and picked him off as he lay helpless in the open.
Bob did not know who the wounded man was. He might be Dud Hollister or Tom Reeves. Or perhaps Blister Haines. Young Dillon sweated in agony. His throat was parched. He felt horribly sick and weak, was still shaking in a palsy of fear.
It was every man for himself now, he reasoned in his terror. Perhaps he could creep through the willows and escape up the river without being seen. He began to edge slowly back.
But that man crouched in the sunshine, tied by his wound to a spot where the Utes would certainly find him sooner or later, fascinated Bob’s eyes and thoughts. Suppose he left him there—and found out too late that he had deserted Dud, abandoning him to almost certain death. He could not do that. It would not be human. What Dud would do in his place was not open to question. He would go out and get the man and drag him to the willows. But the danger of this appalled the cowpuncher. The Utes would get him sure if he did. Even if they did not hit him, he would be seen and later stalked by the redskins.
After all there was no sense in throwing away another life. Probably the wounded man would die anyhow. Every fellow had to think of himself at a time like this. It was not his fault the ranger was cut off and helpless. He was no more responsible for him than were any of the rest of the boys.
But it would not do. Bob could not by any sophistry escape the duty thrust on him. The other boys were not here. He was.
He groaned in desperation of spirit. He had to go andget the ranger who had been shot. That was all there was to it. If he did not, he would be a yellow coyote.
Out of the precarious safety of the willows he crept on hands and knees, still shaking in an ague of trepidation. Of such cover as there was he availed himself. From one sagebush to another he ran, head and body crouched low. His last halt was back of some greasewood a dozen yards from the ranger.
“I’ll get you into the willows if I can,” he called in a sibilant whisper. “You bad hurt?”
The wounded man turned. “My laig’s busted—two places. Plugged in the side too.”
Bob’s heart sank. The face into which he looked was that of Jake Houck. If he had only known in time! But it was too late now. He had to finish what he had begun. He could not leave the fellow lying there.
He crawled to Houck. The big man gave directions. “Better drag me, I reckon. Go as easy as you can on that busted laig.”
Dillon took him beneath the arms and hauled him through the sand. The wounded man set his teeth to keep back a groan. Very slowly and carefully, an inch here, a foot there, Bob worked Houck’s heavy body backward. It was a long business. A dozen times he stopped to select the next leg of the journey.
Beads of perspiration stood on Houck’s forehead. He was in great pain, but he clenched his teeth and said nothing. Bob could not deny him gameness. Not a sound escaped his lips. He clung to his rifle even though a free hand would greatly ease the jarring of the hurt leg.
Back of a scrub cottonwood Bob rested for a moment. “Not far now,” he said.
Houck’s eyes measured the distance to the willows. “No,” he agreed. “Not far.”
“Think maybe I could carry you,” Bob suggested. “Get you on my shoulder.”
“Might try,” the wounded man assented. “Laig hurts like sixty.”
Bob helped him to his feet and from there to his shoulder. He staggered over the rough ground to the willows. Into these he pushed, still carrying Houck. As gently as he could he lowered the big fellow.
“Got me as I came over the bluff,” the Brown’s Park man explained. “I was lucky at that. The Utes made a good gather that time. Outa four of us they collected two an’ put me out of business. Howcome they not to get you?”
“Shot my horse,” explained Bob. “I ducked into the willows.”
It was hot in the willows. They were a young growth and the trees were close. The sun beat down on the thicket of saplings and no breeze penetrated it.
Houck panted. Already fever was beginning to burn him up.
“Hotter’n hell with the lid on,” he grumbled. “Wisht I had some water.” He drew out a flask that still had two fingers of whiskey in it, but he had resolution enough not to drink. This would not help him. “Reckon I better not take it,” he said regretfully.
Bob took the bandanna handkerchief from his throat and soaked one end of it in the liquor. “Bathe yore head,” he advised. “It’ll cool it fine.”
As the day grew older and the sun climbed the sky vault the heat increased. No breath of air stirred. The wounded man had moments of delirium in which he moaned for water.
There was water, cool and fresh, not fifty yards from them. He could hear the rushing river plunging toward the Pacific, the gurgling of the stream as it dashed against boulders and swept into whirlpools. But between Bob and that precious water lay a stretch of sandy wash which the Blanco covered when it was high. One venturing to cross this would be an easy mark for sharpshooters from the camp.
It seemed to him that the firing was now more distant. There was a chance that none of the Utes were still in the camp. Fever was mounting in Houck. He was in much distress both from thirst and from the pain of the wounds. Bob shrank from the pitiful appeals of his high-pitched, delirious voice. The big fellow could stand what he must with set jaws when he was sentient. His craving found voice in irrational moments while he had no control over his will. These were increasing in frequency and duration.
Dillon picked up the flask. “Got to leave you a while,” he said. “Back soon.”
The glassy eyes of Houck glared at him. His mind was wandering. “Torturin’ me. Tha’s what you’re doin’, you damned redskin,” he muttered.
“Going to get water,” explained Bob.
“Tha’s a lie. You got water there—in that bottle. Think I don’t know yore Apache ways?”
Bob crept to the edge of the willows. From the foliagehe peered out. Nobody was in sight. He could still see a faint smoke rising from the Indian camp. But the firing was a quarter of a mile away, at least. The bend of the river was between him and the combatants.
Bob took his courage by the throat, drew a long breath, and ran for the river. Just as he reached it a bullet splashed in the current almost within hand’s reach. The cowpuncher stooped and took two hasty swallows into his dry mouth. He filled the bottle and soaked the bandanna in the cold water. A slug of lead spat at the sand close to his feet. A panic rose within him. He got up and turned to go. Another bullet struck a big rock four paces from where he was standing. Bob scudded for the willows, his heart thumping wildly with terror.
He plunged into the thicket, whipping himself with the bending saplings in his headlong flight. Now that they had discovered him, would the Indians follow him to his hiding-place? Or would they wait till dusk and creep up on him unseen? He wished he knew.
The water and the cool, wet bandanna alleviated the misery of the wounded man. He shut his eyes, muttering incoherently.
There was no longer any sound of firing. The long silence alarmed Bob. Was it possible that his friends had been driven off? Or that they had retired from the field under the impression that all of the riders who had plunged over the bluff had been killed?
This fear obsessed him. It rode him like an old man of the sea. He could not wait here till the Utes came to murder him and Houck. Down in the bottom of hisheart he knew that he could not leave this enemy of his to the fate that would befall him. The only thing to do was to go for help at once.
He took off his coat and put it under Houck’s head. He moistened the hot bandanna for the burning forehead and poured the rest of the water down the throat of the sick man. The rifle he left with Houck. It would only impede him while he was crossing the mesa.
None of us know what we can do till the test comes. Bob felt it was physically impossible for him to venture into the open again and try to reach his friends. He might at any instant run plumb into the Utes. Nevertheless he crept out from the willows into the sage desert.
The popping of the guns had begun again. The battle seemed to be close to the edge of the mesa round the bend of the river. Bob swung wide, climbing the bluff from the farther skirt of the willows. He reached the mesa.
From where he lay he could see that the whites held a ridge two hundred yards away. The Utes were apparently in the river valley.
He moved forward warily, every sense abnormally keyed to service. A clump of wild blackberries grew on the rim of the bluff. From this smoke billowed. Bullets began to zip past Bob. He legged it for the ridge, blind to everything but his desperate need to escape.
CHAPTER XXXIII“KEEP A-COMIN’, RED HAID”
When the rangers and the militia stampeded after the Indian scout, Dud Hollister was examining the hoof of his mount. He swung instantly to the saddle and touched his pony with the spur. It shot across the mesa on the outskirts of the troop. Not impeded by riders in front, Dud reached the bluff above the river valley on the heels of the advance guard. He pulled up just in time to keep from plunging over.
The Utes, under cover of the willow saplings, were concentrating a very heavy fire on the bluff and slope below. Dud’s first thought was that the troops had been drawn into a trap. Every man who had been carried over the edge of the mesa by the impetus of the charge was already unhorsed. Several were apparently dead. One was scudding for cover.
Dud drew back promptly. He did not care to stand silhouetted against the sky-line for sharpshooters. Nobody had ever accused the Utes of being good shots, but at that distance they could hardly miss him if he stayed.
The soldiers and rangers gathered in a small clump of cottonwoods. Harshaw read his boys the riot act.
“Fine business,” he told them bitterly. “Every last one of you acted like he was a tenderfoot. Ain’t you ever seen a Ute before? Tryin’ to collect him so anxious, an’ him only bait to lead you on. I reckon we better gohome an’ let Major Sheahan’s boys do this job. I’m plumb disgusted with you.”
The range-riders looked at each other out of the corners of meek eyes. This rebuke was due them. They had been warned against letting themselves be drawn on without orders.
“That fellow Houck he started it,” Big Bill suggested humbly by way of defense.
“Were you drug into it? Did he rope you off yore horse an’ take you along with him?” demanded Harshaw sarcastically. “Well, I hope you got yore lesson. How many did we lose?”
A roll-call showed four missing. Hollister felt a catch at the throat when his riding partner failed to report. Bob must be one of those who had gone over the ledge.
One of Sheahan’s troopers on scout duty reported. “Indians making for a gulch at the end of the willows, sir. Others swarming up into the bushes at the edge of the mesa.”
A cowpuncher familiar with the country volunteered information. “Gulch leads to that ridge over there. It’s the highest point around here.”
“Then we’d better take the ridge,” Harshaw suggested to Sheahan. “Right quick, too.”
The major agreed.
They put the troop in motion. Another scout rode in. The Utes were hurrying as fast as they could to the rock-rim. Major Sheahan quickened the pace to a gallop. The Indians lying in the bushes fired at them as they went.
Tom Reeves went down, his horse shot under him.Dud pulled up, a hundred yards away. Out of the bushes braves poured like buzzing bees. The dismounted man would be cut off.
Hollister wheeled his cowpony in its tracks and went back. He slipped a foot from the stirrup and held it out as a foot-rest for Reeves. The Utes whooped as they came on. The firing was very heavy. The pony, a young one, danced wildly and made it impossible for Tom to swing up.
Dud dismounted. The panicky horse backed away, eyes filled with terror. It rose into the air, trembling. Dud tried to coax it to good behavior.
The moments were flying, bringing the Utes nearer every instant.
“We gotta make a run for it, Dud,” his companion said hurriedly. “To the willows over there.”
There was no choice. Hollister let go the bridle and ran. Scarcely fifty yards behind them came the Utes.
Even in their high-heeled boots the cowpunchers ran fast. Once within the shelter of the willows they turned and opened fire. This quite altered the situation. The foremost brave faltered in his pigeon-toed stride, stopped abruptly, and dived for the shelter of a sagebush. The others veered off to the right. They disappeared into some blackberry bushes on the edge of the mesa. Whether from here they continued to the valley the punchers in the willows could not tell.
“Some lucky getaway,” Dud panted.
“Thought I was a goner sure when they plugged my bronc,” said Reeves.
He took a careful shot at the sagebush behind whichthe Indian had taken refuge. The Ute ran away limping.
“Anyhow, that guy’s got a souvenir to remember me by. Compliments of Tom Reeves,” grinned the owner of that name.
“We’ve got to get back to the boys somehow. I reckon they’re havin’ quite a party on the ridge,” Dud said.
The sound of brisk firing came across the mesa to them. It was evident that the whites and redskins had met on the ridge and were disputing for possession of it.
“My notion is we’d better stick around here for a while,” Reeves demurred. “I kinda hate to hoof it acrost the flat an’ be a target the whole darned way.”
This seemed good to Hollister. The troopers seemed to be holding their own. They had not been driven back. The smoke of their rifles showed along the very summit of the rock-rim. The inference was that the Utes had been forced to fall back.
The two rangers lay in the willows for hours. The firing had died down, recommenced, and again ceased. Once there came the sound of shots from the right, down in the valley close by the river.
“They’re likely gettin’ the fellow that wasn’t killed when he went over the bluff,” Dud suggested. “There ain’t a thing we can do to help him either.”
“That’s it, I reckon. They’re collectin’ him now. Wonder which of the boys it is.”
Dud felt a twinge of conscience. There was nothing he could do to help the man hemmed in on the riverbank, but it hurt him to lie there without attemptingaid. The ranger making the lone fight might be Bob Dillon, poor Bob who had to whip his courage to keep himself from playing the weakling. Dud hoped not. He did not like to think of his riding mate in such desperate straits with no hope of escape.
The battle on the ridge had begun again. Hollister and Reeves decided to try to rejoin their friends. From the north end of the willows they crept into a small draw that led away from the river toward the hills beyond the mesa. Both of them were experienced plainsmen. They knew how to make the most of such cover as there was. As they moved through the sage, behind hillocks and along washes, they detoured to put as much distance as possible between them and the Utes at the edge of the bench.
But the last hundred yards had to be taken in the open. They did it under fire, on the run, with a dozen riflemen aiming at them from the fringe of blackberry bushes that bordered the mesa. Up the ridge they went pell-mell, Reeves limping the last fifty feet of the way. An almost spent bullet had struck him in the fleshy part of the lower leg.
Hawks let out a cowboy yell at sight of them, jumped up, and pulled Dud down beside him among the boulders.
“Never expected to see you lads again alive an’ kickin’ after you an’ the Utes started that footrace. I’ll bet neither one of you throwed down on yoreself when you was headin’ for the willows. Gee, I’m plumb glad to see you.”
“We’re right glad to be here, Buck,” acknowledged Dud. “What’s new?”
“We got these birds goin’, looks like. In about an hour now we’re allowin’ to hop down into the gulch real sudden an’ give ’em merry hell.”
Dud reported to Harshaw. The cattleman dropped a hand on his rider’s shoulder with a touch of affection. He was very fond of the gay young fellow.
“Thought they’d bumped you off, boy. Heap much glad to see you. What do you know?”
“I reckon nothing that you don’t. There was firin’ down by the river. Looks like they found one o’ the boys who went over the bluff.”
“An’ there’s a bunch of ’em strung out among the bushes close to the edge of the mesa. Fifteen or twenty, would you think?”
“Must be that many, the way their bullets dropped round Tom an’ me just now.”
“Tom much hurt?”
“Flesh wound only—in the laig.”
Harshaw nodded. His mind was preoccupied with the problem before them. “The bulk of ’em are down in this gulch back of the ridge. We met ’em on the summit and drove ’em back. I judge they’ve had a-plenty. We’ll rout ’em out soon now.”
A brisk fire went on steadily between the Utes in the gulch and the whites on the ridge. Every man had found such cover as he could, but the numbers on both sides made it impossible for all to remain wholly hidden. The casualties among the troopers had been, however, very light since the first disastrous rush over the bluff.
Dud caught Harshaw’s arm. “Look!” he cried, keenly excited.
A man had emerged from the bushes and was running across the flat toward the ridge. Dud and Tom had kept well away toward the foothills, not out of range of the Utes, but far enough distant to offer poor targets. But this man was running the gauntlet of a heavy fire close enough to be an easy mark. Blanco valley settlers, expert marksmen from much big-game hunting, would have dropped the runner before he had covered thirty yards. But the Indians were armed with cheap trade guns and were at best poor shots. The runner kept coming.
Those on the ridge watched him, their pulses quick, their nerves taut. For he was running a race with death. Every instant they expected to see him fall. From the bushes jets of smoke puffed like toy balloons continuously.
“Fire where you see the smoke, boys,” Harshaw shouted.
The rangers and militia concentrated on the fringe of shrubbery. At least they could make it hot enough for the Indians to disturb their aims.
“He’s down!” groaned Hollister.
He was, but in a second he was up once more, still running strong. He had stumbled over a root. The sage was heavy here. This served as a partial screen for the swiftly moving man. Every step now was carrying him farther from the sharpshooters, bringing him closer to the ridge.
“By Godfrey, he’ll make it!” Harshaw cried.
It began to look that way. The bullets were still falling all around him, but he was close to the foot of the ridge.
Dud made a discovery. “It’s Bob Dillon!” he shouted. Then, to the runner, with all his voice, “Keep a-comin’, Red Haid!”
The hat had gone from the red head. As he climbed the slope the runner was laboring heavily. Dud ran down the hill to meet him, half a dozen others at his heels, among them Blister. They caught the spent youth under the arms and round the body. So he reached the crest.
Blister’s fat arms supported him as his body swayed. The wheezy voice of the justice trembled. “G-glory be, son. I ’most had heart f-failure whilst you was hoofin’ it over the mesa. Oh, boy! I’m g-glad to see you.”
Bob sat down and panted for breath. “I got to go—back again,” he whispered from a dry throat.
“What’s that?” demanded Harshaw. “Back where?”
“To—to the river. I came to get help—for Houck.”
“Houck?”
“He’s down there in the willows wounded.”
CHAPTER XXXIVAN OBSTINATE MAN STANDS PAT
A moment of blank silence fell on the little group crouched among the boulders. Bob’s statement that he had to go back through the fire zone—to Houck—had fallen among them like a mental bombshell.
Blister was the first to find his voice. “You been down there l-lookin’ after him?”
“Yes. They hit him in the leg—twice. An’ once in the side. He’s outa his head. I got him water from the river.”
“Was that when I heard shootin’ down there?” Dud asked.
“I reckon.”
“Well, I’ll be d-dawg-goned!” Blister exclaimed.
Of life’s little ironies he had never seen a stranger example than this. It had fallen to Bob Dillon to look after his bitter enemy, to risk his life for him, to traverse a battle-field under heavy fire in order to get help for him. His mind flashed back to the boy he had met less than a year ago, a pallid, trembling weakling who had shriveled under the acid test of danger. He had traveled a long way since then in self-conquest.
“Houck was down in the open last I seen him,” Hawks said. “Did he crawl to the willows?”
“I kinda helped him,” Bob said, a little ashamed.
“Hmp! An’ now you think we’d ought to let two-three men get shot going after him across the mesa,”Harshaw said. “Nothin’ doing. Not right away anyhow. Houck’s foolishness got him into the hole where he is. He’ll have to wait till we clean out this nest in the gulch. Soon as we’ve done that we’ll go after him.”
“But the Utes will rush the willows,” Bob protested mildly.
“Sorry, but he’ll have to take his chance of that. Any of the rest of us would in his place. You’ve done what you could, son. That lets you out.”
“No, I’m going back,” Bob said quietly. “I told him I would. I got to go.”
“That wouldn’t be r-right sensible, would it?” asked Blister. “N-not right away anyhow. After we get those b-birds outa the blackberry bushes, time enough then for you to h-hit the back trail.”
“No, I promised.” There was in Bob’s face a look Blister had never seen there before, something hard and dogged and implacable. “My notion is for half a dozen of us to go on horses—swing round by the far edge of the mesa. We can drop down into the valley an’ pick Houck up if we’re lucky.”
“And if you’re not lucky?” Harshaw demanded.
“Why, o’ course we might have trouble. Got to take our chances on that.”
“They might wipe the whole bunch of you out. No, sir. I need my men right here. This whole thing’s comin’ to a show-down right soon. Houck will have to wait.”
“I got to go back, Mr. Harshaw,” Bob insisted. “I done promised him I would.”
“Looky here, boy. You’ll do as you please, of course. But there’s no sense in being bull-haided. How much doyou figure you owe this Jake Houck? I never heard tell he was yore best friend. You got him into the willows. You went to the river and brought him water. You ran a big risk comin’ here to get help for him. We’ll go to him just as soon as it’s safe. That ought to content you.”
Before Bob’s mental vision there flashed a picture of a man in fever burning up for lack of water. He could not understand it himself. It was not reasonable, of course. But somehow Jake Houck had become his charge. He had to go through with the job.
“I’m going back to him,” he said stubbornly.
“Then you’re a darn fool. He wouldn’t go a step of the way for you.”
“Maybe not. That ain’t the point. He needs me. Do I get a horse?”
“Yes, if you’re bound an’ determined to go,” Harshaw said. After a momentary hesitation he added: “And if any of the boys want to go along they can. I’m not hinderin’ them. But my advice is for them to stick right here.”
Bob’s eyes swept the little group round him. “Any one want to take a chance? We’ll snake Houck outa the willows an’ make a getaway sure.”
“Or else you’ll stay there with him permanent,” Harshaw contributed. “It’s plumb foolishness, boys. Houck had his orders an’ he broke away from them deliberate. He’d ought to take what’s comin’.”
Dud pleaded with Dillon. “If it was anybody but Houck, Bob, I’d trail along with you. I sure would. But I can’t see as there’s any call for us to take such a big risk for him. He’s got it in for us both. Said himself hewas layin’ for us. You stood by him to a fare-you-well. Ain’t that enough?”
Bob did not attempt to reason. He simply stated facts. “No, I got to go back, Dud. He’s a mighty sick man, an’ he needs me. The Utes are liable to find him any time. Maybe I could stand ’em off.”
“An’ maybe you couldn’t,” Blister said. “It’s plumb s-suicide.”
Dillon looked at his fat friend with a faint, dreary smile. He did not himself relish the task before him. “Thought you told me to be a wolf, to hop to it every chance I got to do some crazy thing.”
Blister hedged. “Oh, well, a f-fellow wants to have some sense. I never see a good thing that couldn’t be r-run into the ground. Far as I know, I never told you to stand on the D. & R. G. tracks an’ try to stop the express with yore head.”
“I’ll have to be going now,” Bob said. He turned to Harshaw. “Where’s that bronc I get to carry me back?”
“Up there in the piñons. Dud, you see he gets a good one. I’m wishin’ you luck, son. An’ I’ll say one thing right out in meetin’. You’re a better man than Lou Harshaw.” The cattleman’s hand gripped that of Dillon firmly.
“Shucks! Tha’s foolishness,” Bob murmured, embarrassed. “I’m scared stiff if you want to know.”
“I reckon that’s why you’re aimin’ for to make a target of yorese’f again,” Hawks suggested ironically. “Damn ’f I’d do it for the best man alive, let alone Jake Houck. No, sir. I’ll go a reasonable way, but I quit this side of suicide. I sure do.”
Over to the left rifles were still popping, but at this point of the ridge the firing had temporarily died down. Bob Dillon was the center of interest.
A second time his eye traveled over the group about him. “Last call for volunteers, boys. Anybody want to take a ride?”
Blister found in that eye some compelling quality of leadership. “Dawg-gone you, I’ll go,” his high falsetto piped.
Bob shook his head. “Not you, Blister. You’re too fat. We’re liable to have to travel fast.”
Nobody else offered himself as a sacrifice. There were men present who would have taken a chance for a friend, but they would not do it for Houck.
Dud went with Bob to the piñons. While Dillon saddled one horse, Hollister put the bridle on a second.
“What’s that for?” Bob asked.
“Oh, I’m soft in the haid,” Dud grunted. “Gonna trail along. I’ll tell you right now I ain’t lost Houck any, but if you’re set on this fool business, why, I’ll take a whirl with you.”
“Good old Dud,” Bob beamed. “I’ll bet we get away with it fine.”
“Crazy old Dud,” the owner of the name grumbled. “I’ll bet we get our topknots scalped.”
They rode down from the rim-rock, bearing to the right, as far away from the river as possible. The Utes in the blackberry fringe caught sight of them and concentrated their fire on the galloping horsemen. Presently the riders dipped for a minute behind a swell of ground.
“A heap more comfortable ridin’ here,” Dud said, easing his horse for a few moments to a slower pace. “I never did know before why the good Lord made so much of this country stand up on end, but if I get outa this hole I’ll not kick at travelin’ over hills so frequent. They sure got their uses when Injuns are pluggin’ at you.”
They made as wide a circuit as the foothills would allow. At times they were under a brisk fire as they cantered through the sage. This increased when they swung across the mesa toward the river. Fortunately they were now almost out of range.
Riding along the edge of the bluff, they found a place where their sure-footed cowponies could slide and scramble down. In the valley, as they dashed across to the willows where Bob had left Houck, they were again under fire. Even after they had plunged into the thicket of saplings they could hear bullets zipping through the foliage to right and left.
The glazed eyes in Houck’s flushed face did not recognize the punchers. Defiance glowered in his stare.
“Where’d you get the notion, you red devils, that Jake Houck is a quitter? Torment me, will you? Burn me up with thirst, eh? Go to it an’ see.”
Bob took a step or two toward the wounded man. “Don’t you know me, Houck? We’ve come to look after you. This is Dud Hollister. You know him.”
“What if I did gun him?” the high-pitched voice maundered on. “Tried to steal my bronc, he did, an’ I wouldn’t stand for it a minute.... All right. Light yore fires. Burn me up, you hounds of Hades. I’m not askin’ no favors. Not none a-tall.”
The big man’s hand groped at his belt. Brown fingers closed on the butt of a forty-five. Instantly both rescuers were galvanized to life. Dud’s foot scraped into the air a cloud of sand and dust as Bob dived forward. He plunged at Houck a fraction of a second behind his friend.
Into the blue sky a bullet went singing. Bob had been in time to knock the barrel of the revolver up with his outflung hand.