by Unknown
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 and get 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 foliage he 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 his heart 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 go home 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 which the 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 attempting aid. 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.