He ran to the point of rocks, gathered himself together and cleared the trail and the open space beyond in one leap. How he got up the steep bank he never remembered afterward. He only knew that he heard the sharp crack of the first rifle again as he was sprinting up the little gully that had concealed his descent. He gained the top, stopped to get his bearings more accurately and made his way toward the spot where he had seen the man with the rifle.
It occurred to him that he had best approach the spot from the shelter of the ledge where he had separated from Johnny Buffalo. At that point he could pick up the Indian’s tracks and follow them, so saving time in the long run.
Johnny Buffalo’s moccasins left little trace in the gravelly soil. But here and there they left a mark, and Rawley got the direction and hurried on. Fifty yards farther up the ridge he glimpsed something yellowish-brown against a small juniper. A few feet farther, he saw that it was Johnny Buffalo, lying on his face, one arm thrown outward with the hand still grasping the stock of his rifle.
He snatched up the rifle, crouched beside the Indian and searched the neighborhood with his eyes, trying to get a sight of the killer. In a moment he spied him, away down the deep ravine up which he and Johnny Buffalo had toiled not half an hour before. The man was running. Rawley raised the rifle to his shoulder, took careful aim and fired, but he had small hope of hitting his target at that distance.
At the sound of the shot so close above him, Johnny Buffalo stirred uneasily, as if disturbed in his sleep. The man in the distance ducked out of sight amongst the bowlders; and that was the last Rawley saw of him at that time.
“I must apologize for not taking you more seriously when you warned me,” said the girl, just behind him. “Is this—?”
“My partner, Johnny Buffalo. He isn’t dead—he moved, just now—but I’m afraid he’s badly hurt.” Rawley lifted anxious blue eyes to her face.
“We can carry him down to the trail. Then, if Deacon is all right when we get him up, we can put your partner on him and pack him home. It’s only a mile or so.”
“It might be better to take him to Nelson,” Rawley amended the suggestion. “I could get a car there and take him on to Las Vegas, probably. Or some mine will have a doctor.”
“It’s farther—and the heat, with the long ride, would probably finish him,” the girl pointed out bluntly. “On the other hand, a mile on the burro will get him home, where it’s cool and we can see how badly he’s hurt. And then, if he needs hospital care, Uncle Peter can take him down to Needles in the launch, this evening when it’s cool. I really don’t mean to be disagreeable and argumentative, but it seems to me that will be much the more comfortable plan for him. And I can’t help feeling responsible, in a way. I suppose he was trying to protect us, when he was shot.”
Rawley looked up from an amateurish examination of the old man. The bullet wound was in the shoulder, and he was hoping that it was high enough so that the lung was not injured. His flask of brandy, placed at Johnny’s lips, brought a gulp and a gasp. The black eyes opened, looked from Rawley to the girl and closed again.
“There! I believe he’s going to be all right,” the girl declared optimistically. “I’ll take his feet, and you carry his shoulders. When we get him down to the trail, I’ll have Grandmother look after him until we get the burros straightened out. Queo—or whoever it was—did you see him?”
Rawley waved a hand toward the rocky ravine. “You heard me shoot,” he reminded her. “Missed him—with that heirloom Johnny carries. He was running like a jackrabbit when I saw him last. Well, I think you’re right—but I hate to trouble you folks. Though I’d trouble the president himself, for Johnny Buffalo’s sake.”
“It’s a strange name,” she remarked irrelevantly, stooping and making ready to lift his knees. “He must be a Northern Indian.”
“Born in this district,” Rawley told her. “Grandfather found him in the desert when he was a kid. I suppose he gave him the name—regardless.”
Until they reached the trail there was no further talk, their breath being needed for something more important. They laid the injured man down in the shade of a greasewood, and the girl immediately left to bring the old squaw. She was no sooner gone than Johnny Buffalo opened his eyes.
“It was Queo,” he said, huskily whispering. “I thought he was shooting at you. I tried to kill him. But the damn gun is old—old. It struck me hard. I did not shoot straight. I did not kill him. Queo looked, he saw me and he shot as he ran away. The gun has killed many—but I am old—”
“You’re all right,” Rawley interrupted. “Quit blaming yourself. You saved two women by shooting when you did. Queo was afraid to stay and shoot again when he knew there was a gun at his back. He has gone down the ravine where we came up.”
“Who was the white girl?” Even Johnny Buffalo betrayed a very masculine interest, Rawley observed, grinning inwardly. But he only said:
“I don’t know. She was on the trail, with an old squaw and two burros. It was they that Queo was laying for, evidently. Don’t try to talk any more, till I get you where we can look after you properly. Where’s your pack? I didn’t see it, up there.”
“It is hidden in the juniper. I did not want to fight with a load on my back.”
“All right. Don’t talk any more. We’ll fix you up, all fine as silk.”
The girl was returning, and after her waddled the squaw, reluctant, looking ready to retreat at the first suspicious move. Rawley stood aside while the girl gave her brief directions in Indian,—so that Johnny Buffalo could understand, Rawley shrewdly suspected, and thanked her with his eyes. The squaw sidled past Rawley and sat down on the bank, still staring at him fixedly. His abrupt appearance and the consequent stampede of the burros had evidently impressed her unfavorably. The look she bestowed upon Johnny Buffalo was more casual. He was an Indian and therefore understandable, it seemed.
The narrow canyon lay sun-baked and peaceful to the hard blue of the sky. With the lightness which came of removing the pack from his shoulders, Rawley walked up the trail and around the turn to where the burro called Deacon still lay patiently on his back in the narrow watercourse below the trail. He slid down the bank and inspected the lashings of the pack.
“We use what is called the squaw hitch,” the girl informed him from the trail just above his head. “If you cut that forward rope I think you can loosen the whole thing. The knot is on top of the pack, and of course Deacon’s lying on it.” A moment later she added, “I’ll go after Pickles, unless I can be of some use to you.”
Privately, Rawley thought that she was useful as a relief to the eyes, if nothing else. But he told her that he could get along all right, and let her go. The girl piqued his interest; she was undoubtedly beautiful, with her slim, erect figure, her clear, hazel eyes with straight eyebrows, heavy lashes, and her lips that were firm for all their soft curves. But Johnny Buffalo’s life might be hanging on Rawley’s haste. However beautiful, however much she might attract his interest, no girl could tempt him from the chief issue.
By the time she returned with Pickles, Rawley had retrieved Deacon and was gone down the trail with him. She came up in time to help him lift Johnny Buffalo on the burro and tie him there with the pack rope. She was efficient as a man, and almost as strong, Rawley observed. And although she treated the squaw with careful deference, she was plainly the head of their little expedition,—and the shoulders and the brains.
Only once did the squaw speak on the way to the river. The girl was walking alongside Deacon, steadying Johnny Buffalo on that side while Rawley held the other. They were talking easily now, of impersonal things; and when, on a short climb, the burro stepped sharply to one side and Johnny Buffalo lurched toward the girl, Rawley slipped his arm farther behind the Indian. His fingers clasped for an instant the girl’s hand. The squaw, walking heavily behind, saw the brief contact.
“Nevada! You shall not be so bold,” she cried in Pahute. “Take away your hand from the white man.”
The girl turned her head and answered sharply in the same tongue and afterwards smiled across at Rawley, meeting his eyes with perfect frankness.
“Yes, my name is Nevada. I’ll save you the trouble of asking,” she said calmly. “El Dorado Nevada Macalister, if you want it all at once. Luckily, no one ever attempts to call me all of it. My parents were loyal, romantic, and had an ear for euphony.”
“Were?” The small impertinence slipped out in spite of Rawley; but fortunately she did not seem to mind.
“Yes. My father was caught in a cave-in in the Quartette Mine when I was a baby. Mother died when I was six. I have a beautiful, impractical name—and not much else—to remember them by. I’ve lived with Grandfather and Grandmother; except, of course, what time I have been in school.” She gave him another quick look behind Johnny Buffalo’s back. “And your autobiography?”
“Mine is more simple and not so interesting. Name, George Rawlins King. Place of birth, a suburb of St. Louis. Occupation, mining engineer. Present avocation, prospecting during my vacation. My idea of play, you see, is to get out here in the heat and snakes and work at my trade—for myself.”
“And Johnny Buffalo?”
“Oh, he just came along. Hadn’t seen this country since he was a kid and wanted to get back, I suppose, on his old stamping ground. He lived with Grandfather. But Grandfather died a few weeks ago, and Johnny and I have sort of thrown in together. Now, I suppose our prospecting trip is all off—for the present, anyway.”
“This country has been gone over with a microscope, almost,” said Nevada. “I suppose there is mineral in these hills yet, but it must be pretty well hidden. The country used to swarm with prospectors, but they seem to have got disgusted and quit. The war in Europe, of course, has created a market—” She stopped and laughed with chagrin. “Of course a lady desert rat like me can give a mining engineer valuable information concerning markets and economic conditions in general!”
“I’m always glad to talk shop,” Rawley declared tactfully.
But Nevada fell silent and would not talk at all during the remainder of the journey.