CHAPTER XXX
UP THE WALL
Pipes were glowing in the shadows away from the fire, where men lay in various attitudes of ease. A few were examining wounds while others cleaned rifles and saw that their revolvers were in good condition. Around the fire but well back from it four men sat cross-legged, two others stretched out on their elbows and stomachs near them.
"You say everything is all right on th' ranch?" asked Buck of a man who, covered with alkali, had just come from the Bar-20. "No trouble, hey?"
"Nope; no trouble at all," replied Cross, tossing his sombrero aside. "Lucas an' Bartlett each sent us four men to help out when they learned you had come out here. We shipped four of 'em right on to th' H2, which is too short-handed to do any damage to rustlers."
"Much obliged for that," spoke up Meeker, relief in his voice. "I'm blamed glad to hear things are quiet back home—but I don't know how long they'll stay that way with Eagle so close."
"Well, Eagle ain't a whole lot anxious to dip in no more," laughed Cross, looking at the H2 foreman. "Leastawise, that's what Lucas said. He sent a delegation down there which made a good impression. There was ten men in it an' they let it be known that if they came back again there would be ten more with 'em. In that case Eagle wouldn't be no more than a charred memory. Since Quinn died, being shot hard by Nevada, who I reckons is out here, th' town ain't got nobody to tell it how to do things right, which is shore pleasant."
"You bring blamed good news—I'm glad Lucas went down there," Buck replied. "I can't tell as good news about us out here, yet. We've had a hard time for a week. They got Pie to-day, an' most of us are shot up plentiful. Yo're just in time for th' festival, Cross—we're going to try to rush 'em to-night an' get it over. We reckon Skinny an' Pete can get us a way up that wall before dawn."
"Me for th' rush," laughed Cross. "I'm fresh as a daisy, which most of you fellers ain't. How many of 'em have you got so far? Are there many still up there?"
"We've got four of 'em that I knows of, an' how many of 'em died from their wounds I can't say," replied Hopalong. "But a whole lot of 'em have been plugged, an' plugged hard."
"But how many are up there still able to fight?"
"I should say about nine," Hopalong remarked, thoughtfully.
"Ten," corrected Red. "I've been watching th' positions an' I know."
"About nine or ten—they shift so nobody can really tell," Buck replied. "I reckon we've seen 'em all in Eagle, too."
"Frenchy got Nevada an' another to-day, on th' west side," Johnny interposed.
"I'm glad Nevada is gone—he's a terror in a mix-up," Cross rejoined. "Best two-handed gun man in Eagle, he was."
"Huh!" snorted Johnny. "Stack him up against Hoppy an' see how long he'd last!"
"I said in Eagle!" retorted Cross.
Buck suddenly stood up and stretched. "You fellers all turn in now an' snatch some sleep. I'm going out to see how things are with Billy. I'll call you in time. Doc, you an' Curtis are too shot up to do any climbing—you turn in too. When I come back I'll wake you an' send you out to help Billy watch th' trail. Where's Red?"
"Over here—what do you want?" came from the shadows.
"Nothing, only get to sleep. I reckoned you might be off somewheres scouting. Skinny, where's yore rope? Got that manilla one? Good! Put three more hemp lariats out here where I can find 'em when I come back. Now don't none of you waste no time; turn in right now!" He started to walk away and then hesitated, turning around. "Doc, you an' Curtis better come with me now so you won't lose no time hunting Billy in th' dark when yore eyes are sleepy—it's hard enough to find him now in th' dark, when I'm wide awake. You can get yore sleep out there—he'll wake you when yo're needed."
The two punchers arose and joined him, Doc with his left arm bandaged and his companion with three bandages on him. When they joined Buck Doc protested. "Let me go with you an' th' rest of th' boys, Peters, when you go up that wall. I came out here to get th' Greaser that murdered Curley, an' I hate to miss him now. If I can't climb th' boys will be glad to pull me up, an' it won't take no time to speak of. My gun arm is sound as a dollar—I want that Greaser!"
Buck glanced at Meeker, who refused to give any sign of his thoughts on the matter. "Well, all right, Doc. But if we should have to fight as soon as we get up an' don't have no time to pull you after us, you'll miss everything. But you can do what you want."
"I'll just gamble on that. I ain't hurt much, an' if I can't climb I'll manage to get in th' scrap someway, even if I has to hunt up Billy," replied Doc, contentedly, returning to the fire.
Buck and his companion moved away into the darkness while those around the fire lay down to get a few hours' rest, which they needed badly. George Cross, who was not sleepy, remained awake in a shadow and kept guard, although none was needed.
Buck and Curtis found Billy by whistling and the wounded H2 puncher found a place to lie down and was soon asleep, while the foreman and his friend sat up, watching the faint glow on the mesa, the camp-fire of the besieged. Once they heard the clatter of a rifle from the head of the trail and later they saw a dim figure pass quickly across the lighted space. They were content to watch on such a night, for the air had cooled rapidly after the sun went down and the sky was one twinkling mass of stars.
Twice during the wait Buck disappeared into the black chaparral close at hand and struck a match under his coat to see the time, and on the last occasion he returned to Billy, remarking: "Got half an hour yet before I leave you. Are you sleepy?"
"No, not very; my head hurts too much to sleep," Billy replied, re-crossing his legs and settling himself in a more comfortable position. "When you leave I'll get up on my hoofs so I won't feel like dosing off. I won't wake Curtis unless I have to—he's about played out."
"You wake him when you think I've been gone half an hour," Buck ordered. "It'll take him some time to get his eyes open—we mustn't let any get away. They've got friends in Eagle, you know."
"Wish I could smoke," Billy remarked, wistfully.
"Why, you can," replied Buck, quickly. "Go back there in th' chaparral an' get away with a pipeful. I'll watch things till you come back, an' if I need you quick I can call. You've got near half an hour—make th' best of it."
"Here's th' gun—much obliged, Buck," and Billy disappeared, leaving the foreman to plan and watch. Buck glanced at the sleeping man occasionally when he heard him toss or mutter and wished he could let him sleep on undisturbed.
Suddenly a flash lighted up the top of the trail for an instant and the sharp report of a rifle rang out loudly on the still, night air. Buck, grabbing the Winchester, sprang to his feet as an excited chorus came from the rustlers' stronghold. Then he heard laughter and a few curses and quiet again ensued.
"What was that, Buck?" came a low, anxious hail from behind.
The foreman laughed softly and replied: "Nothing, Billy, except that th' guard up there reckoned he saw something to shoot at. It's funny how staring at th' dark will get a feller seeing things that ain't. Why, had yore smoke so soon?" he asked in surprise as Billy sat down beside him.
"Shore," replied Billy. "Two of 'em. I reckon yore time is about up. Gimme th' gun now."
"Well, good luck, Billy. Better move up closer to th' trail if you can find any cover. You don't want to miss none. So long," and Billy was alone with his sleeping companion.
When the foreman returned to the camp he was challenged, and stopped, surprised. "It's Peters," he called.
"Oh, all right. Time to go yet?" asked Cross, emerging from the darkness.
"Purty near; but I thought I told you to go to sleep?"
"I know, but I ain't sleepy, not a bit. So I reckoned I'd keep watch over th' rest of th' gang."
"Well, since yo're wide awake, you help me knot these ropes an' let th' others have a few minutes more," Buck responded, picking up Skinny's fifty-foot lariat and placing it to one side. He picked up the three shorter ropes and threw one to his companion. "Put a knot every foot an' a half—make 'em tight an' big."
In a few minutes the work was finished and Buck awakened the sleeping men, who groped their way to the little stream close by and washed the sleep out of their tired eyes, grabbing a bit of food on their return to the fire.
"Now, fellers," said the foreman, "leave yore rifles here—it's Colts this trip, except in Red's case. Got plenty of cartridges? Everybody had a drink an' some grub? All right; single file after me an' don't make no noise."
When the moon came up an hour later Red Connors, lying full length on the apex of the pinnacle which Johnny had tried and found wanting, watched an indistinct blurr of men in the shadow of the mesa wall. He saw one of them step out into the moonlight, lean back and then straighten up suddenly, his arm going above his head. The silence was so intense that Red could faintly hear the falling rope as it struck the ground. Another cast, and yet another, both unsuccessful, and then the fourth, which held. The puncher stepped back into the shadow again and another figure appeared, to go jerking himself up the face of the wall. While he watched the scaling operations Red was not missing anything on the top of the mesa, where the moon bathed everything in a silvery light.
Then he saw another figure follow the first and kick energetically as it clambered over onto the ledge. Soon a rope fell to the plain and the last man up, who was Skinny, leaned far out and cast at the second ledge, Pete holding him. After some time he was successful and again he and his companion went up the wall. Pete climbed rapidly, his heavy body but small weight for the huge, muscular arms which rose and fell so rapidly. On the second ledge the same casting was gone through with, but it was not until the eighth attempt that the rope stayed up. Then Red, rising on his elbows, put his head closer to the stock of his rifle and peered into the shadows back of the lighted space on the rocky pile. He saw Pete pull his companion back to safety and then, leaping forward, grasp the rope and climb to the top. Already one of the others was part way up the second rope while another was squirming over the lower ledge, and below him a third kicked and hauled, half way up the first lariat.
"String of monkeys," chuckled Red. "But they can't none of 'em touch Pete in that sort of a game. Wonder what Pete's doing?" he queried as he saw the man on the top of the mesa bend, fumble around for a moment, and then toss his arm out over the edge. "Oh, it's a knotted rope—he's throwing it down for th' others. Well, Pete, old feller, you was th' first man to get—Lord!"
He saw Pete wheel, leap forward into a shadow, and then a heaving, twisting, bending bulk emerged into the moonlight. It swayed back and forth, separated into two figures and then became one again.
"They're fighting, rough an' tumble!" Red exclaimed. "Lord have mercy on th' man who's closing with that Pete of ourn!"
He could hear the scuffling and he knew that the others had heard it, too, for Skinny was desperately anxious to wriggle over the edge, while down the line of ropes the others acted like men crazed. Still the pair on the mesa top swayed back and forth, this way and that, bending, twisting, and Red imagined he could hear their labored breathing. Then Skinny managed to pull himself to the top of the wall and sprang forward, to sink down from a kick in the stomach.
"God A'mighty!" cried Red excitedly. "Who is it that can give Pete a fight like that? Well, I'm glad he's so busy he can't use his gun!"
Skinny was crawling around on his hands and knees as Buck's head arose over the edge. The foreman, well along in years, and heavy, was too tired to draw himself over the rim without a moment's rest. He had no fear for Pete, but he was worried lest some rustler might sound an alarm. Skinny now sat up and felt for his Colt, but the foreman's voice stopped him. "No shooting, yet! Want to tell 'em what's up? You let them fellers alone for a minute, an' give me a hand here."
Pete, his steel-like fingers darting in for hold after hold, managed to jerk his opponent's gun from its sheath and throw it aside, where Skinny quickly picked it up. He was astonished by the skill and strength of his adversary, who blocked every move, every attempt to get a dangerous hold. Pete, for a man reputed as being slow, which he was in some things, was darting his arms in and out with remarkable quickness, but without avail. Then, realizing that his cleaner living was standing him in good stead, and hearing the labored breathing of the rustler, he leaped in and clinched. By this time Hopalong and three more of the attacking force had gained the mesa top and were sent forward by the foreman, who was now intent upon the struggle at hand.
"It's Big Sandy!" Hopalong whispered to Skinny, pausing to watch for a moment before he disappeared into the shadows.
He was right, and Big Sandy, breathless and tired, was fighting a splendid fight for his life against a younger, fresher, and stronger man. The rustler tried several times for a throat hold but in vain, and in a fury of rage threw his weight against his opponent to bear him to the ground, incautiously bringing his feet close together as he felt the other yield. In that instant Pete dropped to a crouch, his vice-like hands tightened about Big Sandy's ankles, and with a sudden, great surge of his powerful back and shoulders he straightened up and Sandy plunged forward to a crashing fall on the very edge of the mesa, scrambled to his feet, staggered, lost his balance, and fell backwards a hundred feet to the rocks below.
The victor would have followed him but for Buck, who grasped him in time. Pete, steady on his feet again, threw Buck from him by one sweep of his arms and wheeled to renew the fight, surprise flashing across his face at not seeing his opponent.
"He's down below, Pete," Buck cried as Johnny, white-faced, crawled over the edge.
"What was that?" exclaimed the Kid. "Who fell?"
"Big Sandy," replied the foreman. "He—" the report of a shot cut him short. "Come on!" he cried. "They're at it!" and he dashed away, closely followed by Johnny and Pete as Jim Meeker came into view. The H2 foreman slid over the mesa rim, leaped to his feet and sprinted forward, Colt in hand, to be quickly lost in the shadows, and after him came Red Connors, the last.
Down below Doc, hearing a thud not far from him, hurried around a spur of rock in the wall, sick at heart when he saw the body. Bending over quickly he recognized the mass as once having been Big Sandy, and he forthwith returned to the rope to be pulled up. When he at last realized that his friends had forgotten him there was loud, lurid cursing and he stamped around like a wild man, waving a Colt in his right hand. Finally he dropped heavily on a rock, too enraged to think, and called the attacking force, collectively and individually, every name that sprang to his lips. As he grew calmer he arose from the rock, intending to join Billy and Curtis at the other end of the pasture, and as he took a step in that direction he heard a sharp click and a pebble bounced past him. He stepped backwards quickly and looked up, seeing a figure sliding rapidly down the highest rope. He was immediately filled with satisfaction and easily forgave his companions for the anxiety they had caused him, and as he was about to call out he heard a Spanish oath. Slipping quickly and noiselessly into the deeper shadow at the base of the wall he flattened himself behind the spur of rock close to the rope, where he waited tensely, a grim smile transforming his face.
CHAPTER XXXI
FORTUNE SNICKERS AT DOC
Antonio was restless and could not sleep. He turned from side to side on the ground near the fire before the hut and was one of the first to run to the top of the trail when the guard there discharged his rifle at nothing. Returning to his blanket the Mexican tried to compose himself to rest, but was unsuccessful. Finally he arose, picked up his rifle, and slouched off into the shadows to wander about from point to point.
Cavalry, coming in from his post to get a drink, caught sight of the Mexican before he was swallowed up by the darkness and, suspicious as ever of Antonio, forgot the drink and followed.
After wandering about all unconscious of espionage Antonio finally drifted to the western edge and seated himself comfortably against a bowlder, Cavalry not fifty feet away in a shadow. Time passed slowly and as the Mexican was about to return to the fire he chanced to glance across the mesa along a moon-lighted path and stiffened at what he saw. A figure ran across the lighted space, silently, cautiously, Colt in hand, and then another, then two together, and the Mexican knew that the enemy had found a way up the wall and were hurrying forward to fight at close quarters, to effect a surprise on the unsuspecting men about the fire and in the hut. There remained, perhaps, time enough for him to escape and he arose and ran north, crouching as he zig-zagged from cover to cover, cautious and alert.
Cavalry, because of his position, had not seen the flitting punchers and, his suspicions now fully aroused, he slipped after the Mexican to find out just what he was going to do. When the firing burst out behind him he paused and stood up, amazed. As he struggled to understand what it meant he saw three men run past a bowlder at his left and then he knew, and still hesitated. He was not a man who thought quickly and his first natural impulse, due to his army training, was to try to join his friends, but gradually the true situation came to him. How many men there were in the attacking force he did not know, but he had seen three after the fighting had begun; and it was evident that the cowmen would not rush into the lion's jaws unless they were strong enough to batter down all resistance. Four of his friends were dead, another had evidently deserted, and the remainder were all more or less severely wounded—there could be no hope of driving the ranchmen back, and small chance of him being able to work through their line to join his friends. There remained only one thing to be done, to save himself while he might.
As he moved forward slowly and cautiously to find a way down the wall he remembered the Mexican's peculiar actions and wondered if he had a hand in helping the cowmen up.
Meanwhile Antonio, reaching the edge of the open space where Pete and Big Sandy had fought, saw Red Connors appear over the rim and dash away to join in the fighting. Waiting long enough to assure himself that there were none following Red he ran to the edge and knelt by the rope. Leaving his rifle behind and seeing that the flap of his holster was fastened securely, he lowered himself over, sliding rapidly down to the first ledge. Here he spent a minute, a minute that seemed an eternity, hunting for the second rope in the shadows, found it and went on.
Sliding and bumping down the rough wall he at last reached the plain and, with a sigh of relief, turned to run. At that instant a figure leaped upon him from behind and a hand gripped his throat and jerked him over backwards. Antonio instinctively reached for his Colt with one hand while he tore at the gripping fingers with the other, but he found himself pinned down between two rocks in such a manner that his whole weight and that of his enemy was on the holster and made his effort useless. Then, terrified and choking for breath, he dug wildly at the vice-like fingers which not for a moment relaxed, but in vain, for he was growing weaker with each passing second.
Doc leaned forward, peering into the face before him, his fingers gripping with all their power, gripping with a force which made the muscles of the brawny forearm stand out like cords, his face malevolent and his heart full of savage joy. Here was the end of his hunt, here was the man who had murdered Curley in cold blood, cowardly, deliberately. The face, already dark, was turning black and the eyes were growing wide open and bulging out. He felt the surge of the Mexican's pulse, steadily growing weaker. But he said no word as he watched and gloated, he was too intent to speak, too centred upon the man under him, too busy keeping his fingers tight-gripped. He would make good his threat, he would keep his word and kill the murderer of his best friend with his naked hand, as he had sworn.
Up above the two, Cavalry, working along the edge, had come across Antonio's rifle and then as he glanced about, saw the rope. Here was where the cowmen had come up and here was where he could go down. From the way the shooting continued he knew that the fight was desperate and he believed himself to be cut off from his friends. He hated to desert in the face of the enemy, to leave his companions of a dangerous business to fight for their lives without him, but there was only one thing to do since he could not help them—he must save himself.
Dropping his rifle beside the other he lowered himself over the edge and slid rapidly down. When half-way down the last rope his burning hands slipped and he fell head over heels, and landed on Doc, knocking him over and partially stunning him. Cavalry's only idea now was to escape from the men who, as he thought, were guarding the rope and, hastily picking himself up, he dashed towards the chaparral to the west as fast as he could run, every moment expecting to feel the hot sting of a bullet. At last, when the chaparral closed about him he plunged through it recklessly and ran until sheer exhaustion made him drop insensible to the sand. He had run far, much farther than he could have gone were it not for the stimulus of the fear which gripped him; and had he noticed where he was going he would have known that he was running up a slope, a slope which eventually reached a level higher than the top of the mesa. And when he dropped if he had been capable of observation he would have found himself in a chaparral which arose above his head, and seen the narrow lane through it which led to a great expanse of sand, tawney and blotched with ash-colored alkali, an expanse which stretched away to the desolate horizon.
Shortly after Cavalry's descent Antonio stirred, opened his eyes, stared vaguely about him and, feeling his bruised and aching throat, staggered to his feet and stumbled to the east, hardly conscious of what he was doing. As he proceeded his breath came easier and he began to remember having seen Doc lying quiet against a rock. He hesitated a moment as he wondered if Doc was dead and if so, who had killed him. Then he swore because he had not given him a shot to make sure that he would not rejoin his friends. Hesitating a moment he suddenly decided that he would be better off if he put a good distance between himself and the mesa, and ran on again, eager to gain the shelter of the chaparral.
When Doc opened his eyes and groped around he slowly remembered what had occurred and his first conscious act was to look to see if his expected victim were dead or alive. It did not take him long to realize that he was alone and his hand leaped for his Colt as he peered around. Limping out on the plain he caught sight of the running Mexican, rapidly growing indistinct, and hazarded two shots after him. Antonio leaped into a new speed as though struck with a whip and cursed himself for not having killed the H2 puncher when he had the chance. A moment more and he was lost in the thickets. Doc tried to follow, but his leg, hurt by Cavalry's meteoric descent, was not equal to any great demand for speed and so, turning, he made his way towards the camp to get a horse and return to take up the Mexican's trail.
He lost an hour in this, a feverishly impatient hour, punctuated with curses as he limped along and with an unsparing quirt once he was astride. What devilish Humpty Dumpty had cheated him this time? "All the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put Humpty Dumpty together again"—they couldn't if he once caught up with the Mexican. He laughed grimly and swore again as the cranky beast beneath him shied a pain into his sore leg. "Go on, you!" he yelled, as he swept up to where the ropes still dangled against the wall. "Th' Mexican first," he muttered. The world was not big enough to hide the murderer of Curley, to save him from his just deserts. The two trails lay plain before him in the brilliant moonlight and his pony sprang forward toward the spot where Antonio had disappeared in the chaparral.
CHAPTER XXXII
NATURE TAKES A HAND
When Hopalong caught up with his four companions he was astonished by the conditions on the mesa. Instead of a bowlder-strewn, rocky plain as he had believed it to be he found himself on a table-land cut and barred by fissures which ran in all directions. At one time these had been open almost to the level of the surrounding pasture but the winds had swept sand and debris into the gashes until now none were much more than ten feet deep. Narrow alleyways which led in every direction, twisting and turning, now blocked and now open for many feet in depth, their walls sand-beaten to a smoothness baffling the grip of one who would scale them, were not the same in a fight as a comparatively flat plain broken only by miscellaneous bowlders and hummocks. There could be no concerted dash for the reason that one group of the attacking force might be delayed until after another had begun to fight. And it was possible, even probable, that the turns in the alleyways might be guarded; and once separated in the heat of battle it would be easy enough to shoot each other. Instead of a dashing fight soon to be over, it looked as though it would be a deadly game of hide and seek to wear out the players and which might last for an indefinite length of time. It was disconcerting to find that what had been regarded as the hardest part of the whole affair, the gaining of the mesa top, was the easiest.
"Here, fellows!" Hopalong growled. "We'll stick together till we get right close, an' then if we have time an' these infernal gorges don't stop us, we may be able to spread out. We've got to move easy, too. If we go galloping reckless we'll run into some guard an' there won't be no surprise party on Thunder Mesa. We can count on having light, though not as much as we might have, for th' moon won't go back on us till th' sun fades it."
"It's light enough," growled Skinny. "Come on—we've got to go ahead an' every minute counts. I didn't think we'd lose so much time roping them knobs an' getting up."
They moved forward cautiously in single file, alert and straining eyes and ears, and had covered half of the distance when a shot was heard ahead and they listened, expecting an uproar. Waiting a minute and hearing nothing further, they moved on again, angry and disgruntled. Then another shot rang out and they heard Billy and Curtis reply.
"Shooting before daylight, before they get their morning's grub," grumbled George Cross.
"Yes; sort of eye-opener, I reckon," softly laughed Chick Travers, who was nervous and impatient. "Get a move on an' let's start something," he added.
As they separated to take advantage of a spoke-like radiation of several intersecting fissures another shot rang out ahead and there was an angry spat! close to Hopalong's head. Another shot and then a rattling volley sent the punchers hunting cover on the run, but they were moving forward all the time. It was a case of getting close or be killed at a range too great for Colts, and their rifles were in the camp. Had the light been better the invaders might have paid dearly right there for the attack.
Confusion was rife among the defenders and the noise of the shouts and firing made one jumble of sound. Bullets whistled along the fissures in the dim light and hummed and whizzed as they ricochetted from wall to wall. As yet the attacking force had made no reply, being too busily occupied in getting close to lose time in wasting lead at that range, and being only five against an unknown number protected by a stone hut and who knew every bowlder, crevice, and other points of vantage.
Hopalong slid over a bowlder which choked his particular and personal fissure and saw Jim Meeker sliding down the wall in front of it. And as Meeker picked himself up Skinny Thompson slid down the other wall.
"Well, I'm hanged!" grunted Hopalong in astonishment.
"Same here," retorted Skinny. "What you doing 'way over here?"
"Thought you was going to lead th' other end of th' line!" rejoined Hopalong.
"This is it—yo're off yore range."
"Well, I reckon not!" Hopalong responded, indignantly.
"An' say, Meeker, how'd you get over here so quick?" Skinny asked, turning to the other. "You was down below when I saw you last."
"Me? Why, I just follered my nose, that's all," Meeker replied, surprised.
"You've got a blamed crooked nose, then," Skinny snorted, and turned to Hopalong. "Why don't you untangle yoreself an' go where you belong, you carrot-headed blunderer!"
"Hang it! I tell you I—" Hopalong began, and then ducked quickly. "Lord, but somebody's got us mapped out good!"
"Well, some of our fellers have started up—hear 'em over there?" exclaimed Skinny as firing broke out on the east. "Them's Colts, all right. Mebby it's plumb lucky for us it ain't so blamed light, after all; we'll have time to pick our places before they can see us real good."
"Pick our places!" snorted Hopalong. "Get tangled up, you mean!" he added.
"Hullo! What you doing, fellers?" asked a pained and surprised voice above them. "Why ain't you in it?"
"For th' love of heaven—it's Frenchy!" cried Hopalong. "Skinny, I reckon them Colts you heard belonged to th' rustlers. We're all here but a couple."
"Didn't I leave you over east about five minutes ago, Frenchy?" demanded Skinny, his mouth almost refusing to shut.
"Shore. I'm east—what's eating at you?" asked Frenchy.
"Come on—get out of this!" ordered Hopalong, scrambling ahead. "You foller me an' you'll be all right."
"We'll be back to th' ropes if we foller you," growled Skinny. "Of all th' locoed layouts I ever run up against this here mesa top takes th' prize," he finished in disgust.
Bullets whined and droned above them and frequently hummed down the fissure to search them out, the high, falsetto whine changing quickly to an angry spang! as they struck the wall a slanting blow. They seemed to spring away again with renewed strength as they sang the loud, whirring hum of the ricochette, not the almost musical, sad note of the uninterrupted bullet, but venomous, assertive, insistent. The shots could be distinguished now, for on one side were the sharp cracks of rifles; on the other a different note, the roar of Colts.
"This ain't no fit society for six-shooters," Meeker remarked in a low voice as they slid over a ridge, and dropped ten feet before they knew it.
"For th' Lord's sake!" ejaculated Hopalong as he arose to his feet. "Step over a rock an' you need wings! Foller a nice trail an' you can't get out of th' cussed thing! Go west an' you land east, say 'so-long' to a friend an' you meet him a minute later!"
"We ought to have rifles in this game," Meeker remarked, rubbing his knee-cap ruefully.
"Yes; an' ladders, ropes, an' balloons," snorted Skinny.
"Send somebody back for th' guns," suggested Frenchy.
"Who?" demanded Hopalong. "Will you go?"
"Me? Why, I don't want no rifle!"
"Huh! Neither do I," remarked Skinny. "Here, Frenchy, give me a boost up this wall,—take my foot!"
"Well, don't wiggle so, you piece of string!"
"That's right! Walk backwards! I ain't no folding step-ladder! How do you think I'm going to grab that edge if you takes me ten feet away from it?"
Spang! Spang! Zing-ing-ing!
"Here, you! Lemme down! Want me to get plugged!" yelled Skinny, executing ungraceful and rapid contortions. "Lower me, you fool!"
"Let go that ridge, then!" retorted Frenchy.
During the comedy Hopalong had been crawling up a rough part of the wall and he fired before he lost his balance. As he landed on Meeker a yell rang out and the sound of a rifle clattering on rock came to them. "I got him, Skinny—go ahead now," he grunted, picking himself up.
It was not long until they were out of the fissure and crawling down a bowlder-strewn slope. As they came to the bottom they saw a rustler trying to drag himself to cover and Meeker fired instantly, stopping the other short.
"Why, I thought I stopped him!" exclaimed Hopalong.
"Reckon you won't rustle no more cows, you thief," growled Meeker, rising to his knees.
Hopalong pulled him down again as a bullet whizzed through the space just occupied by his head. "Don't you get so curious," he warned. "Come on—I see Red. He's got his rifle, lucky cuss."
"Good for him! Wish I had mine," replied Meeker, grinning at Red, who wriggled an elbow as a salutation. In his position Red could hardly be expected to do much more, since two men were waiting for a shot at him.
"Well, you can get that gun down there an' have a rifle," Hopalong suggested, pointing to the Winchester lying close to its former owner. "You can do it, all right."
"Good idea—shoot 'em with their own lead," and the H2 foreman departed on his hands and knees for the weapon.
"I hit one—he's trying to put his shoulder together," cried Red, grinning. "What makes you so late—I was th' last one up, an' I've been here a couple of hours."
"Yo're a sinful liar!" retorted Hopalong. "We stopped to pick blackberries back at that farm house," he finished with withering sarcasm.
"You fellers had time to get married an' raise a family," Red replied. He ducked and looked around. "Ah, you coyote—hit him, but not very hard, I reckon."
It was daylight when Pete, on the other end of the line, turned and scourged Johnny. "Ain't you got no sense in yore fool head? How can I see to shoot when you kick around like that an' fill my eyes with dirt! Come down from up there or I'll lick you!"
"Ah, shut up!" retorted Johnny with a curse. "You'd kick around if somebody nicked yore ear!"
"Well, it serves you right for being so unholy curious!" Pete replied. "You come down before he nicks yore eye!"
"Not before I get square—Wow!" and Johnny came down rapidly.
"Where'd he get you that time?"
"None of yore business!" growled Johnny.
"I told you to come—"
"Shut up!" roared Johnny, glaring at him. "Wish I had that new Sharps of mine!"
"Go an' get it, Kid. Yo're nimble," Pete responded. "An' bring up some of th' others, too, while yo're about it."
"But how long will this fight last, do you reckon?" the other asked, with an air of weighing something.
"All day with rifles—a week without 'em."
"Shore yo're right?"
"Yes; go ahead. There'll be some of th' scrap left for you when you get back."
"All right,—but don't you get that feller. I want him for what he did to me," and Johnny hastened away. He returned in fifteen minutes with two rifles and gave one of them to his companion.
"They're .45-70's—an' full, too," he remarked. "But I ain't got no more cartridges for 'em."
"How'd you get 'em so quick?"
"Found 'em by th' rope where we come up—didn't have to stop; just picked 'em up an' came right back," Johnny laughed. "But I wonder how they got there?"
"Bet four dollars an' a tooth-pick they means that two thieves got away down them ropes. Where's Doc?"
"Don't know—but I don't think anybody pulled him up here."
"Then he might 'a stopped them two what owned th' rifles—he would be mad enough to stay there a month if Red forgot him."
"Yes; waiting to lick Red when he came down," and Johnny crawled up again to his former position. "Now, you cow-stealing coyote, watch out!" As he settled down he caught sight of his foreman. "Hullo, Buck! What you doing?"
"Stringing beads for my night shirt," retorted Buck. "You get down from up there, you fool!"
"Can't. I got to pay for—" he ducked, and then fired twice. "Just missed th' other ear, Pete. But I made him jump a foot—plugged him where he sits down. He was moving away. An' blamed if he ain't a Greaser!"
"Yes; an' you took two shots to do it, when cartridges are so scarce," Pete grumbled.
At first several of the rustlers had defended the hut but the concentrated fire of the attacking force had poured through its north window from so many angles that evacuation became necessary. This was accomplished through the south window, which opened behind the natural breastwork, and at a great cost, for Con Irwin and Sam Austin were killed in the move.
The high, steep ridge which formed the rear wall of the hut and overlooked the roof of the building ran at right angles to the low breastwork and extended from the north end of the hut to the edge of the mesa, a distance of perhaps fifty feet. On the side farthest from the breastwork it sloped to the stream made by the spring and its surface was covered with bowlders. The rustlers, if they attempted to scale its steep face, would be picked off at short range, but they realized that once the enemy gained its top their position would be untenable except around the turn in the breastwork at the other side of the mesa. In order to keep the punchers from gaining this position they covered the wide cut which separated the ridge from the enemy's line, and so long as they could command this they were safe.
After wandering from point to point Hopalong finally came to the edge of the cut and found Red Connors ensconced in a narrow, shallow depression on a comparatively high hummock. While they talked his eyes rested on the ridge across the cut and took in the possibilities that holding it would give.
"Say, Red, if we could get up on that hill behind th' shack we'd have this fight over in no time—see how it overlooks everything?"
"Yes," slowly replied Red. "But we can't cross this barranca—they sweep it from end to end. I tried to get over there, an' I know."
"But we can try again," Hopalong replied. "You cover me."
"Now don't be a fool, Hoppy!" his friend retorted. "We can't afford to lose you for no gang of rustlers. It's shore death to try it."
"Well, you can bet I ain't going to be fool enough to run twenty yards in th' open," Hopalong replied, starting away. "But I'm going to look for a way across, just th' same. Keep me covered."
"All right, I'll do my best—but don't you try no dash!"
But the rustlers had not given up the idea of holding the ridge themselves, and there was another and just as important reason why they must have it; their only water was in the hut and the spring. To enter the building was certain death, but if they could command the ridge it would be possible to get water, for the spring and rivulet lay on the other side at its base. Hall, well knowing the folly of trying to scale the steep bank under fire, set about finding another way to gain the coveted position. He found a narrow ledge on the face of the mesa wall, at no place more than eight inches wide, and he believed that it led to the rear of the ridge. Finding that the wall above the narrow foothold was rough and offered precarious finger holds, he began to edge along it, a hundred feet above the plain. When he had almost reached the end of his trying labors he was discovered by Billy and Curtis, who lay four hundred yards away in the chaparral, and at once became the target for their rifles. Were it not for the fact that they could not shoot at their best because of their wounds Hall would never have finished his attempt, and as it was the bullets flattened against the wall so close to him that on two occasions he was struck by spattering lead and flecks of stone. Then he moved around the turn and was free from that danger, but found that he must get fifty yards north before he could gain the plateau again. To make matters worse the ledge he was on began to grow narrower and at one place disappeared altogether. When he got to the gap he had to cling to the rough wall and move forward inch by inch, twice narrowly missing a drop to the plain below. But he managed to get across it and strike the ledge again and in a few minutes more he stepped into a crevice and sat down to rest before he pushed on. When he looked around he found that the crevice led northeast and did not run to the ridge, and he swore as he realized that he must go through the enemy's line to gain the position. He would not risk going back the way he had come, for he was pretty well tired out. He thought of trying to get to the other end of the mesa so as to escape by the way the attacking force had come up, but immediately put it out of his mind as being too contemptible for further consideration. He arose and moved forward, seeking a way up the wall of the crevice—and turning a corner, bumped into Jim Meeker.
There was no time for weapons and they clinched. Meeker scorned to call for help and Hall dared make no unnecessary noise while in the enemy's line and so they fought silently. Both tried to draw their Colts, Meeker to use his either as a gun or a club, Hall as a club only, and neither succeeded. Both were getting tired when Hall slipped and fell, the H2 foreman on top of him. At that instant Buck Peters peered down at them from the edge of the fissure and then dropped lightly. He struck Hall over the head with the butt of his Colt and stepped back, grinning.
"There'll be a lot more of these duets if this fight drags out very long," Buck said. "This layout is shore loco with all its hidden trails. Have you got a rope, Jim? We'll tie this gent so he won't hurt hisself if you can find one."
"No. Much obliged, Peters," Meeker replied. "Why, yes I have, too. Here, use this," and he quickly untied his neck-kerchief and gave it to his friend. Buck took the one from around Hall's neck and the two foremen gave a deft and practical exhibition of how to tie a man so he cannot get loose. Meeker took the Winchester from Hall's back, the Colt and the cartridge belt, and gave them to Buck, laughing.
"Seventy-three model; .44 caliber," he explained. "You'll find it better than th' six-shooter, an' you'll have plenty of cartridges for it, too."
"But don't you want it?" asked Buck, hesitating.
"Nope. I left one around th' corner here. I can get along with it till I get my own from th' camp."
"All right, Jim. I'll be glad to keep this—it'll come in handy."
"Tough luck, finding them fellers in such a strong layout," Meeker growled, glancing around at the prisoner. "Ah, got yore eyes open, hey?" he ejaculated as Hall glared at him. "How many of you fellers are up here, anyhow?"
"Five thousand!" snapped Hall. "It took two of you to get me!" he blazed. "Got my guns, too, ain't you? Hope they bust an' blow yore cussed heads off!"
"Thanks, stranger, thanks," Buck replied, turning to leave. "But Meeker had you licked good—I only hurried it to save time. Coming, Jim?"
"Shore. But do you think this thief can get loose?"
Buck paused, searching his pockets, and smiled as he brought to light a small, tight roll of rawhide thongs. "Here, this'll keep him down," and when they had finished their prisoner could move neither hands nor feet. They looked at him critically and then went away towards the firing, the rustler cursing them heartily.
"What's th' matter, Meeker?" asked Buck suddenly, noticing a drawn look on his companion's face.
"Oh, I can't help worrying about my girl. She ain't scared of nothing an' she likes to ride. She's too purty to go breezing over a range that's covered with rustling skunks. I told her to stay in th' house, but—"
"Well, why in thunder don't you go back where you can take care of her?" Buck demanded, sharply. "She's worth more than all th' cows an' rustlers on earth. You ain't needed bad out here, for we can clean this up, all right. You know as long as there are fellers like us to handle a thing like this no man with a girl depending on him has really got any right to take chances. I never thought of it before, or I'd 'a told you so. You cut loose for home to-day, an' leave us to finish this."
"Well, I'll see how things go to-morrow, then. I can pull out th' next morning if everything is all right out here." He hesitated a moment, looking Buck steadily in the eyes, a peculiar expression on his face. "Peters, yo're a white man, one of th' whitest I ever met, an' you've got a white outfit. I don't reckon we'll have no more trouble about that line of yourn, not nohow. When we settle down to peace an' punching again I'm going to let you show me how to put down some wells at th' southern base of yore hills, like you said one day. If I can get water, a half as much as you got in th' Jumping Bear, I'll be fixed all right. But I want to ask you a fair question, man to man. I ain't no real fool an' I've seen more than I'm supposed to, but I want to be shore about this, dead shore. What kind of a man is Hopalong Cassidy when it comes to women?"
Buck looked at him frankly. "If I had a daughter I wouldn't want a better man for her."
CHAPTER XXXIII
DOC TRAILS
Doc had not gone far into the chaparral before he realized that his work was going to be hard. The trail was much fainter than it would have been if the Mexican were mounted; the moonlight failed to penetrate the chaparral except in irregular patches which made the surrounding shadows all the deeper by contrast; what little he saw of the trail led through places far too small and turning too sharply to permit being followed by a man on horseback, and lastly, he expected every minute to be fired upon, and at close range. He paused and thought a while—Antonio would head for Eagle, that being the only place where he could get assistance, and there he would find friends. Doc picked his way out of the labyrinth of tortuous alleys and finally came to a comparatively wide lane leading southeast. He rode at a canter now and planned how he would strike the fugitive's trail further down, and after he had ridden a few miles he was struck by a thought that stopped him at once.
"Hang it all, he might 'a headed for them construction camps or for one of th' north ranches, to steal a cayuse," he muttered. "Th' only safe thing for me to do is to jump his trail an' stop guessing, an' even then mebby he'll get me before I get him. That's a clean gamble, an' so here goes," wheeling and retracing his course. When he again found the trail at the place he had quit it, he dismounted and crawled along on his hands and knees in order to follow the foot-prints among the shadows. Then some animal bounded up in front of him and leaped away, and as he turned to look after it he caught sight of his horse standing on its hind legs, and the next instant it was crashing through the chaparral. Drawing his Colt and cursing he ran back in time to see the horse gain an alleyway and gallop off. Angered thoroughly he sent a shot after it and then followed it, finally capturing it in a blind alley. Roundly cursing the frightened beast he led it back to where he had left the trail and, keeping one hand on the reins, continued to follow the foot-prints. Day broke when he had reached the edge of the chaparral and he mounted with a sigh of relief and rode forward along the now plainly marked trail.
As he cantered along he kept his eyes searching every possible cover ahead of and on both sides of him, watching the trail as far ahead as he could see it, for the Mexican might have doubled back to get a pursuer as he rode past. After an hour of this caution he slapped his thigh and grinned at his foolishness.
"Now ain't I a cussed fool!" he exclaimed. "A regular, old-woman of a cow-puncher! That Greaser won't do no doubling back or ambushing. He'll shore reckon on being trailed by a bunch an' not by a locoed, prize-winning idiot. Why, he's making th' best time he can, an' that's a-plenty, too. Besides he ain't got no rifle. Lift yore feet, you four-legged sage hen," he cried, spurring his horse into a lope. He mechanically felt at the long rifle holster at the saddle flap and then looked at it quickly. "An' no rifle for me, neither! Oh, well, that's all right, too. I don't need any better gun than he's got, th' coyote. Canteen full of water an' saddle flaps stuffed with grub. Why, old cayuse, if you can do without drinking till we get back to th' mesa we'll be plumb happy. Wonder when you was watered last?"
The trail had been swinging to the north more and more and when Doc noted this fact he grinned again.
"Nice fool I'd 'a been hunting for these tracks down towards Eagle, wouldn't I? But I wonder where he reckons he's going, anyhow?"
Sometime later he had his answer, for he found himself riding towards a water hole and then he knew the reason for the trail swinging north. He let his mount drink its fill and while he waited he noticed a torn sombrero, then a spur, and further away the skeleton of a horse. Looking further he saw the skeleton of a man, all that the coyotes had left of the body of Dick Archer, the man killed by Red on the day when he and Hopalong had discovered that Thunder Mesa was inhabited. He pushed around the water hole and then caught sight of something in the sand. Edging his mount over to it he leaned down from the saddle and picked up a Colt's revolver, fully loaded and as good as the day Archer died. That air contained no moisture. As he slipped it in a saddle bag he spurred forward at top speed, for on the other side of a hummock he saw the head and then the full figure of a man plodding away from him, and it was Antonio.
The fugitive, hearing hoofbeats, looked back and then dropped to one knee, his rifle going to his shoulder with the movement.
"Where in h—l did he get a rifle?" ejaculated Doc, forcing his horse to buck-jump and pitch so as to be an erratic target. "He didn't have none when I grabbed him! Th' devil! That cussed skeleton back there gave me a six-shooter, an' him a rifle!"
There was a dull smothered report and he saw the Mexican drop the gun and rock back and forth, apparently in agony, and he rode forward at top speed. Jerking his horse to its haunches he leaped off it just as Antonio wiped the blood from his eyes and jerked loose his Remington six-shooter. But his first shot missed and before he could fire again Doc grappled with him.
This time it was nearly an even break and Doc found that the slim figure of his enemy was made up of muscles of steel, that the lazy Greaser of the H2 ranch was, when necessary, quick as a cat and filled with the courage of desperation. It required all of Doc's attention and skill to keep himself from being shot by the other's gun and when he finally managed to wrest the weapon loose he was forced to drop it quickly and grab the same hand, which by some miracle of speed and dexterity now held a knife, a weapon far more deadly in hand-to-hand fighting. Once when believing himself to be gone the buckle of his belt stayed the slashing thrust and he again fought until the knife was above his head. Then, suddenly, two fingers flashed at his eyes and missed by so close a margin that Doc's eyebrows were torn open and his eyes blinded with blood. Instinct stronger than the effect of the disconcerting blindness made him hold his grip on the knife hand, else he would have been missing when his foreman looked for him at the mesa. He dug the fingers of his left hand, that had gripped around the Mexican's waist, into his enemy's side and squeezed the writhing man tighter to him, wiping the blood from his eyes on the shirt of the other. As he did so he felt Antonio's teeth sink into his shoulder and a sudden great burst of rage swept over him and turned a man already desperate into a berserker, a mad man.
The grip tightened and then the brawny, bandaged left arm quickly slipped up and around the Mexican's neck, pressing against the back of it with all the power of the swelling, knotted muscles. A smothered cry sobbed into his chest and he bent the knife hand back until the muscles were handicapped by their unnatural position and then, suddenly releasing both neck and hand, leaped back a step and the next instant his heavy boot thudded into the Mexican's stomach and he watched the gasping, ghastly-faced rustler sink down in a nerveless heap, fighting desperately for the breath that almost refused to return.
Doc wiped his eyes free of blood and hastily bound his neck-kerchief around the bleeding eyebrows. As he knotted the bandage he stepped forward and picked up both the revolver and knife and threw them far from him. Glancing at the rifle he saw that it had burst and knew that the greased, dirty barrel had been choked with sand. He remembered how Curley's rifle had been leaded by the same cause and fierce joy surged through him at this act of retributive justice. He waited patiently, sneering at the groaning Mexican and taunting him until the desperate man had gained his feet.
Doc stepped back a pace, tossing the burst rifle from him, and grinned malignantly. "Take yore own time, Greaser. Get all yore wind an' strength. I ain't no murderer—I don't ride circles around a man an' pot-shoot him. I'm going to kill you fair, with my hands, like I said. Th' stronger you are th' better I'll feel when I leave you. An' if you should leave me out here on th' sand, all right—but it's got to be fair."
When fully recovered Antonio began the struggle by leaping forward, thinking his enemy unprepared. Doc faced him like a flash and bent low, barely escaping the other's kick. They clinched and swayed to and fro, panting, straining, every ounce of strength called into play. Then Doc got the throat hold again and took a shower of blows unflinchingly. His eyebrows, bleeding again, blinded him, but he could feel if he could not see. Slowly the resistance weakened and finally Doc wrestled Antonio to his knees, bending over the Mexican and slowly tightening his grip; and the man who had murdered Curley went through all he had felt at the base of the mesa wall, at last paying with his life for his career of murder, theft, fear, and hypocrisy.
Doc arose and went to his horse. Leading the animal back to the scene of the struggle he stood a while, quietly watching the Mexican for any sign of life, although he knew there would be none.
"Well, bronc, Curley's squared," he muttered, swinging into the saddle and turning the animal's head. "Come on, get out of this!" he exclaimed, quirting hard. As he passed the water hole he bowed to the broken skeleton. "Much obliged, stranger, whoever you was. Yore last play was a good one."
CHAPTER XXXIV
DISCOVERIES
When the two foremen entered the firing line again they saw Red Connors and they cautiously went towards him. As they came within twenty feet of him Buck chanced to glance across the cut and what he saw brought a sudden smile to his face.
"Meeker, Red has got that spring under his gun!" he exclaimed in a low voice. "They can't get within ten feet of it or within ten feet of th' water at any point along its course. This is too good to bungle—wait for me," and he ran out of sight around a bend in the crevice, Meeker staring across at the spring, his eyes following the rivulet until it flowed into the deep, narrow cut it had worn in the side of the mesa.
Red looked around. "Why, hullo, Meeker! Where's Buck? Thought I heard him a minute ago. If you have got any water to spare I can use some of it good. Some thief drilled my canteen when I went fooling along this barranca, an' I ain't got a drop left."
Meeker began to move closer to him, Red warning him to be careful, and adding, "Three of them fellers ain't doing nothing but watch this cut. Scared we'll get across it an' flank 'em, I reckon."
"Do you know that yo're covering their water supply?" Meeker asked, handing his canteen to his thirsty companion. "They can't get to it as long as you stay here. That's why they're after you so hard."
Red wiped his lips on his sleeve and sighed contentedly. "It's blamed hot, but it's wet. But is that right? Am I keeping 'em thirsty? Where's th' water?"
"Shore you are; it's right over there—see that little ditch?" Meeker replied, pointing.
Bing! Spat!
The H2 foreman dropped his arm and grinned. "They're watching us purty close, ain't they? Didn't miss me far, at that," showing his companion a torn sleeve and a lead splotch on the rock behind him.
"Not a whole lot. Two of them fellers can shoot like blazes. Yo're plumb lucky," Red responded. "If you'd showed more'n yore sleeve that time they'd 'a hit you." He looked across the cut and puckered his brow. "Well, if that's where their water is they don't get none. Mebby we can force 'em out if we watches that spring right smart."
"Here comes Buck now, with Skinny."
"It's too good a card to lose, Skinny," the Bar-20 foreman was saying as he approached. "You settle some place near here where you can pot anybody that tries for a drink. Mebby this little trick wins th' game for us—quien sabe? Hullo, Red; where's yore side pardner?"
"Oh, he went prospecting along this barranca to see if he could get across," Red replied. "He wants to get up on top of that ridge behind th' shack. Says if he can do it th' fight won't last long. See how it overlooks their layout?"
Buck looked and his eyes glistened. "An' he's right, too, like he is generally. That's th' key, an' it lies between them an' th' spring. Beats all how quick that feller can size up a hand. If he could play poker as well as he can fight he could quit working for a living."
"Yes; yo're shore right," Red replied.
Several shots rang out from the breastwork and the bullets hummed past them down the cut. A burst of derisive laughter replied fifty yards to their right and a taunt followed it. More shots were fired and answered by another laugh and taunt, inducing profanity from the marksman, and then Hopalong called to Red. "Six out of seven went plumb through my sombrero, Red, when I poked it out to find if they was looking. They was. Purty good for 'em, eh?"
"Too blamed good to suit me—lucky yore head wasn't in it," Red replied.
Hopalong, singing in stentorian voice an original version of "Mary and Her Little Lamb" in which it seemed he aspired to be the lamb, finally came into view with a perforated sombrero in his hand, which he eyed ruefully. "A good roof gone up, but I didn't reckon everybody was looking my way," he grumbled. "Somebody shore has got to pay for that lid, too," then he glanced up, saw Meeker, and looked foolish. "Howd'y, Meeker; what's new, Buck?"
"Hey, Hoppy! Did you know I was covering their drinking water?" asked Red, triumphantly.
"I knowed you was covering some of it, but you needn't take on no airs about it, for you didn't know it," Hopalong retorted. "What I want to know is why you wasn't covering me, like you said you would!" he cried, eying Red's sombrero, which lay at his feet. "It's all yore fault that my Stetson's bust wide open, an' that being so, we'll just swap, right now, too!" suiting the action to the words.
"Hey! Gimme that war-bonnet, you bunch of gall!" yelled Red kicking at his tormentor and missing. "Gimme that, d'y hear!"
"Give you a punch in th' eye, you sheep!" retorted Hopalong, backing away. "Think you can get away with a play like that after saying you was going to cover me? I ain't no papoose, you animated carrot!"
"Gimme that Stetson!" Red commanded, starting to arise. There was a sharp hum and he dropped back again, blood flowing from his cheek, that being the extent of his person he had so inadvertently exposed. "There, blank you! See what you made me do! Going to drop that hat?"
"Why don't you give 'em a good shot at you? That ain't no way to treat 'em—but honest, Red, you shouldn't get so excited over a little thing like that," Hopalong replied. "Now, I'll leave it to Meeker, here—hadn't I ought to take his roof?"
Meeker laughed. "Th' Court reserves its decision, but possession is nine points in law."
"Huh! Possession is everything. Since I can keep it, why, then, according to th' Court, th' hat belongs to me. Hear that, Red?"
"Yes, I hear it! An' if I wasn't so cussed busy I'd show you how long you'd keep it," Red rejoined. "I'll bet you a hat you don't keep it a day after we get this off'n our hands. Bow-legged Algernon, you!"
"Done—then I'll have two hats; one for work an' one to wear when I'm visiting," Hopalong laughed. "But you've got th' best of th' swap, anyhow. That new lid of yourn, holes an' all, is worth twice as much as this wool thing I'm getting for it. My old one is a hat!"
Red refused to lower his dignity by replying and soon fired. "Huh! Reckon that feller won't shoot no more with his right hand."
"Say, I near forgot to tell you Meeker captured one of them fellers out back; got him tied up now," Buck remarked, relating the incident, Meeker interrupting to give the Bar-20 foreman all the credit.
"Good!" exclaimed Red. "It's a rope necktie for him. An' one less to shoot at me."
"An' you here, Buck!" cried Hopalong in surprise. "Come on, lead th' way! How do you know he was th' only one to get behind us! Good Lord!"
"Gosh, yo're right!" Buck exclaimed, running off. "Come on, Jim. We're a pair of fools, after all!"
At the other end of the line Chick Travers and George Cross did as well as they could with their Colts, but found their efforts unavailing. Their positions were marked by the rustlers and they had several narrow escapes, both being wounded, Cross twice. Ten yards west of them Frenchy McAllister was crawling forward a foot at a time from cover to cover and so far he had not been hit. His position also had been marked and he was now trying to find a new one unobserved, where he could have a chance to shoot once without instantly being fired upon. Pete and Johnny had separated, the latter having given up his attempt to make the rustler pay for his wounded ear. He had emptied the magazine of the rifle he had found and now only used his Colt. As he worked along the firing line he saw Frenchy ten yards in front of him, covered nicely by a steep rise in the ground.
"How are you doing out there, Frenchy?" he asked in a low voice.
"Not very good; wish I had my rifle," came the soft-spoken reply.
"I had one that I found, but I used up all th' cartridges there was in th' magazine."
"What kind an' caliber?"
".45-70 Winchester. I found it by th' ropes. Pete says he reckoned some rustler must have left it behind an' got away down th'—"
"Get it for me, Kid, will you?" interrupted Frenchy, eagerly. "I plumb forgot to leave my belt of rifle cartridges back in th' camp. Got it on now, an' it's chock full, too. Hurry up, an' I'll work back to you for it."
"What luck! In a second," Johnny exulted, disappearing. Returning with the rifle he handed it to his friend and gazed longingly at the beltful of rifle cartridges. "Say, Frenchy," he began. "You know we'll all have our rifles to-night, an' you've got more cartridges for that than you can use before then. It won't be more than three hours before we send for ours. Suppose you gimme some of them for Pete—he's got th' mate to that gun, an' can't use it no more because it's empty."
"Shore, Kid," and Frenchy slipped a handful of cartridges out of his belt and gave them to Johnny. "With my compliments to Pete. What was that you was saying about rustlers an' th' ropes?"
Johnny told of Pete's deductions regarding the finding of the rifles and Frenchy agreed with them, and also that Doc had taken care of the owners of the weapons when they had reached the plain.
"Well, I'm going further away from them thieves now that I've got something to shoot with," Frenchy asserted. "They won't be looking for any of us a hundred yards or more farther back. Mebbe I can catch some of 'em unawares."
"I'll chase off an' give Pete these pills," Johnny replied. "He'll be tickled plumb to death. He was cussing bad when I left him."
George Cross, crawling along a steep, smooth rock barely under the shelter of a bowlder, endeavored to grasp the top, but under-reached and slipped, rolling down to the bottom and in plain sight of the rustlers. As his companion, Chick Travers, tried to help him two shots rang out and Cross, sitting up with his hands to his head, toppled back to arise no more. Chick leaped up and fired twice at one of the marksmen, and missed. His actions had been so sudden and unexpected that he escaped the return shot which passed over him by a foot as he dropped back to cover. Somehow the whole line seemed to feel that there had been a death among them, as evidenced by the burst of firing along it. And the whole line felt another thing; that the cartridges of the rustlers were getting low, for they seemed to be saving their shots. But it was Hopalong who found the cause of the diminishing fire. After hunting fruitlessly with the two foremen and finding that Hall was the only man to get back of the firing line he left his two companions in order to learn the condition of his friends. As he made his way along the line he chanced to look towards the hut and saw four rifles on the floor of it, and back of them, piled against the wall, was the rustlers' main supply of ammunition. Calling out, he was answered by Pete, who soon joined him.
"Pete, you lucky devil, turn that rifle through th' door of th' shack an' keep it on them cartridges," he ordered. "They ain't been shooting as fast as they was at first, an' there's th' reason for it. Oh, just wait till daylight to-morrow! They won't last long after that!"
"They won't get them cartridges, anyhow," Pete replied with conviction.
"Hey, fellers," cried a voice, and they looked around to see Chick Travers coming towards them. "Yore man Cross has passed. He rolled off his ledge an' couldn't stop. They got him when he hit th' bottom of it."
"D—n 'em!" growled Hopalong. "We'll square our accounts to-morrow morning. Pete, you watch them cartridges."
"Shore—" Bang! "Did you see that?" Pete asked, frantically pumping the lever of his rifle.
"Yes!" cried Chick. "Some feller tried to get in that south window! Bet he won't try again after that hint. Hear him cuss? There—Red must 'a fired then, too!"