Rawley chanced to look out of the window. He muttered something then and strode to the screened door.
“Hey! You aren’t going back up that trail, surely?” He went out hurriedly and took long steps after Nevada.
The girl turned and looked at him over her shoulder, flinging back a heavy braid of coppery auburn hair. She had Pickles by his lead rope and was plainly heading into the trail to Nelson.
“Why, yes. There’s a load of grub beside the trail where Deacon upset. I’m going after it.”
Rawley rushed back, seized his hat, sent an anxious glance toward the bed and then ran. He overtook Nevada just at the edge of the basin and stopped her by the simple method of stopping the burro with a strong hand.
“You go back and sit beside Johnny,” he commanded. “I’ll get that grub, myself. And if you’ve got a rifle, I’d like to borrow it.”
“That’s utter nonsense—your going,” Nevada exclaimed. “I meant to take one of the boys—I just sent him in to wash his face, first.”
Rawley laughed. “Do you think a clean face on a kid will have any effect on Queo? You’ll both stay at home, please. I’m going.”
“If you’re determined, I can’t very well stop you,” she said coldly. “But I certainly am going. I always do these things. There’s no possible reason—”
Rawley looked over at the nearest shack, where Aunt Gladys stood watching them, the baby still on her hip. “Mrs. Cramer, I am going up after the grub we left by the trail. Will you see that Johnny Buffalo is looked after? And will you call Miss Macalister’s grandmother, or whoever has any authority over her?” His voice was stern, but the twinkle in his eyes belied the tone.
Aunt Gladys giggled and hitched the baby up from its sagging position. “There ain’t nobody but Peter can do nothing with Nevada,” she informed him. “Her gran’paw, maybe—but he don’t pay no attention half the time. You better stay home, Nevada. Queo might shoot you.”
“How perfectly idiotic! Do you suppose he would refrain from shooting Mr. King, but kill me instead?”
“Well, you can’t tell what he might do,” Aunt Gladys observed sagely. “He’s crazy in the head.”
Rawley laid his fingers on Nevada’s hand, where she held Pickles by the bridle. He looked straight into her eyes, bright with anger. His own eyes pleaded with her.
“Miss Macalister, please don’t be obstinate. To let you go back up that trail is unthinkable. I am going, and some one must be with my partner. I can make the trip well under two hours; there is heavy stuff in that ditch which needs a man’s shoulder under it, getting it back into the trail. Please stay with Johnny Buffalo, won’t you?”
Nevada hesitated, staring back into his eyes. Her hand slid reluctantly from the bridle. Her lip curled at one corner, though her cheeks flushed contradictorily.
“Masculine superiority asserts itself,” she drawled. “Since I can’t prevent your going, I think, after all, I shall prefer to stay at home. A pleasant trip to you, Mr. King!”
“Thanks for those kind words,” Rawley cried, his voice as mocking as hers. “Come on, Pickles, old son!”
A boy of ten, with his face clean to the point of his jaws, came running from the shack with a rifle sagging his right shoulder. Rawley waited until he came up, then took the rifle, spun the boy half around and gave him a gentle push.
“Thanks, sonny. Ladies and children not allowed on this trip, however. You stay and protect the women and babies, son. Got to leave a man in camp, you know. Wounded to look after.”
The boy whirled back, valor overcoming his tongue-tied bashfulness. “Aw, he wouldn’t come here! Gran’paw’d kill ’im. Gran’paw purt’ near did, one time. I c’n shoot, mister. I c’n hit a rabbit in the eye from here to that big rock over there.”
“Yes—well—this isn’t going to be a rabbit hunt. You stay here, sonny.”
“Aw, you’re as bad as Uncle Peter!” the boy muttered resentfully, kicking small rocks with his bare toes. “I guess you’ll wish I’d come along, if Queo gets after you!”
Rawley only laughed and swung up the trail, leading the burro behind him, since he was not at all acquainted with the beast and had no desire to follow it vainly to Nelson, for lack of the proper knowledge to halt it beside the scene of Deacon’s downfall.
As he went, Rawley scanned the near-by ridges and the brush along the trail. There was slight chance, according to his belief, that the outlaw Indian would venture down this far, especially since he could not be sure he had failed to kill Johnny Buffalo. On the other hand, he must have been rather desperate to lie in wait for two women coming home with supplies. Rawley wondered why he had remained up on the ridge; why he had not waited by the trail and robbed them of such things as he needed. Then he remembered Nevada’s very evident ability to whip wildcats, if necessary—certainly to meet any emergency calmly—and shook his head. The old squaw, too, would probably do some clawing if the occasion demanded, and she knew just who and why she was fighting. On the whole, Rawley decided that Queo had merely borne out Johnny Buffalo’s statement that he was a coward and had taken no chances. And from the boy’s remark about his grandfather nearly killing Queo, he thought the outlaw had not wanted his identity discovered.
As for his own risk, Rawley did not give it a second thought. Queo had been well scared, finding two men on the job where he had expected to deal only with women. He had been headed toward the river when Rawley last saw him. It was more than probable that he would continue in that direction.
But it is never safe to guess what an Indian will do,—much less an Indian outlaw who must become a beast of prey if he would live and keep his freedom. Rawley remembered Johnny Buffalo’s pack and tied Pickles to a bush directly under the spot where the shooting had taken place, while he climbed the ridge to retrieve his belongings. He brought canteen and pack down to the trail and hung them on the packsaddle, feeling absolutely secure. The ridge was hot and deserted, even the birds and rabbits having taken cover from the heat.
He went on around the little bend and anchored the burro again while he carried up a sack of potatoes, bacon, flour and a package wrapped in damp canvas, which he guessed to be butter. The tribe of Cramer had what they wanted to eat, at least, he reflected. Also, the load would have made a nice grubstake for the outlaw. Two such burro loads would have supplied Queo for months, adding what game he would undoubtedly kill.
Rawley had just finished packing the burro and had looped up the tie rope to send Pickles down the home trail, when some warning (a sound, perhaps, or a flicker of movement) caused him to look quickly behind him. He glimpsed a dark, heavy face behind a leveled gun barrel, broken teeth showing in an evil grin. Rawley threw himself to one side just as the gun belched full at him. Something jerked his left arm viciously, and a numb warmth stole into that side.
He dropped forward, his right hand flinging back to his holstered automatic and drawing up convulsively with the gun in his hand.
“Thanks for packing the stuff!” chortled Queo, and the two fired simultaneously.
Both scored hits. The leering, black face sobered and slid slowly out of sight behind the rock. Rawley’s head dropped so that his face lay in the blistering dust of the trail. Through his hat crown a small, singed hole showed in front, a ragged tear opposite at the back. Pickles, scored on the leg with the second shot from Queo’s gun, kicked savagely with both feet and went careening down the trail toward home, his pack wabbling violently as he galloped.
It was the sight of him trotting down the trail alone that halted Nevada midway between her rock dugout and the shack where Gladys was setting steaming dishes on the table for the three men who were “washing up” at the bench under the crude porch. Nevada gave a little cry and ran to meet Pickles, and the first thing she noticed was the fresh, red furrow on his leg, from which the blood was still dripping. Turning to call, she saw Peter coming close behind her, wiping his face and neck as he walked.
“Oh, Uncle Peter—he’s been shot!” she cried tremulously. “It must be Queo again.”
Peter’s eyes turned to the trail, visible for some distance up the side hill. There was no one in sight, and without a word he turned back to his own house, dug into the hill near Nevada’s, and presently returned, passing the girl with long strides. He carried his rifle and struck into the hill trail bareheaded. Nevada looked after him, her eyes wide and dark.
An hour later, Peter returned, walking steadily down the trail with Rawley on his back. Without a word he passed the staring group at the shack and carried his burden into the room where Johnny Buffalo lay in uneasy slumber. A step sounded behind him, and he spoke without turning.
“Have Jess and Gladys bring that spring cot out of my cabin, Nevada. They’ll be more contented in the same room. He got Queo—I found him behind a rock not fifty feet from this chap. Now Queo’s cousin will take up the feud and get this fellow—if he pulls out of this scrape.”
“Is he badly hurt?” Nevada was holding her voice steady from sheer will power.
“Arm smashed and a scalp wound. All depends on the care he gets. Well—” Peter straightened and wiped his forehead, looking thoughtfully at Rawley, half lying in a big chair, his long legs spread limply, his face white and streaked with blood, “—we owe him good care, I guess. He must have killed Queo after he’d been shot in the arm. And he’s saved this outfit some trouble. I didn’t tell you—but Queo was laying for a chance at us. Well—run and get that cot here.”
Nevada pushed back her craning family and sent them running here and there on errands. Her grandfather and Jess, the husband of Gladys, looked at her inquiringly from the porch of the shack. Rawley might have thought it strange that they remained mere bystanders during the excitement. But Nevada did not seem to notice their indifference.
“Queo shot him twice—but he killed Queo,” she told them. “Uncle Jess, you’re to get his spring cot, Uncle Peter says, and fix a bed in there.” Her eyes went challengingly to her grandfather. “Uncle Peter says we owe them the best care we can give,” she stated clearly. “He says they have saved some lives in this family.”
The tall, bearded old patriarch looked at her frowningly. He glanced toward the rock cabin, grunted something unintelligible to the girl, and went in to his interrupted dinner.