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“ONE DOGGONE LITTLE BULLET”

“Listen, young fellow,” Slade began. “We’ll drift down the gulch and swing a wide circle. The stock is in a little park back of the cabin. There’s no telling what luck we’ll have. May have to fight our way in and out again. May get the cavvy slick as a whistle without a shot fired. Point is that, if I send you for reinforcements, this outfit will have lit out before you get back. It’s now or never.”

Tom nodded. “Yes, they won’t wait long before pullin’ out.”

They rode out of the gulch to the cow-backed hills beyond. Slade led the way, winding in and out among them with the certainty of one who knew every fold of the land waves. They travelled at a fast road gait. It would not do to have the horses winded before the scene of action was reached. Tom noticed that they were gradually climbing, and also that they were drawing back to the place where the little park must be situated.

“Close now,” Slade said. “The rim of the park is just ahead there.”

The two riders pushed through the brush to a rock rim and looked down into a green park. At the far end was an aspen grove. Here, beyond the park, lay the cabin where Tom had been a prisoner. He could not see it for the aspens, but he was sure of its location. A bunch of horses grazed in the valley. Not far from them sat a man on a rock. He carried a rifle. Even from this distance Tom recognized the long awkward figure. The man was Orton.

“Can’t get much closer without him seeing us,” Slade said. “We’ll hotfoot down there licketty split. Soon as he sees us, we’ll begin firing. He’ll probably cut for cover, even if we don’t hit him.”

The riders put their horses down the slope as fast as was safe. Glancing idly around, Orton caught sight of them. He let out one wild yell of dismay, flung a random shot toward them, and legged it for the aspens. Neither Slade nor Tom wasted ammunition on him. They galloped into the valley, one swinging to the right and the other to the left, until they had circled the remuda. Slade lifted the coyote yell to startle the horses and fired twice in the air.

A black stallion flung up his head, whinnied in alarm, and started the stampede toward the rim. At his heels flew the other horses. The two men flanked the runaways, one on each side, to direct their course.

They were half up the slope before they caught sight of the pursuit, a compact little group of riders emerging at a gallop from the aspens. A bullet struck the sand slide in front of Tom. Puffs of smoke from their guns showed that those below were firing as they rode.

It was rough and heavy going up the rocky slope. Tom’s claybank went up the loose shale like a cat, the shoulder muscles standing out as the pony reached for hoof holds. The business in hand so preoccupied his attention that Tom could not turn to see what the pursuers were doing. But he could hear the sound of shooting, sporadic and occasional.

The claybank clambered up the rock rim, and Tom swung round, silhouetted for a moment against the skyline. In one sweeping glance, he took in the situation. The five outlaws were still in the valley, just beginning to take the incline toward the rim. One of them fired at Tom as he stood there. The bullet cut a twig from a pine two feet from his head. Slade was driving his mount up the last rocky ascent, twenty or thirty feet below Tom. His right arm hung lax. The bridle rein was in his left hand. Plainly, he was wounded.

Tom raised his rifle, took careful aim, and fired. One of the horses in the valley went down, flinging its rider from the saddle. A moment later Slade was beside him.

“You’re hit,” Tom said.

“Plugged through the arm. Get back from the rim, boy.” Slade spoke curtly, incisively, while the horse’s body heaved between his legs from the strain of the climb. “We got to hold ’em here a while, one of us. I’ll stay. Head straight for the emigrant trail and your bull train. Bring help if I don’t show up.”

Tom slid from the saddle. He knew that Slade, wounded as he was in the shooting arm, could offer no adequate defence. “I’m stayin’,” he said. “You light outa here pronto.”

Without waiting to argue the case, he dropped to his knees and crept forward through the bushes. Four horsemen, not bunched, were riding the rocky shoulder straight toward him. For a fraction of a second Tom was nervous and unsteady. Then the panic passed. He was quite cool and sure of himself. He fired. Another horse lost its footing and sank down.

Not ten feet from him, a Colt’s revolver barked. He looked around, to see Slade crouched behind a twisted pine.

“We’ll stand ’em off here,” the wounded superintendent said.

Already they had at least delayed the pursuit. The men below were slipping from their horses and taking cover behind boulders.

“Don’t fool with the men. Pick off the horses,” Slade ordered.

Tom loved horses. Every one he owned became his friend. It seemed horrible to shoot them down for no fault of their own. But lives were at stake. His first bullet struck one in the flank. The animal gave a cry of pain and galloped across the brow of the hill. The other two horses joined the flight.

“Good work,” called Slade. “Now, boy, back to our own horses and follow the herd.”

They flung themselves into their saddles and struck a gallop. Across the hills they could see the dust of the stampeded remuda.

“They’re headed down. All we’ve got to do is to follow and round ’em up,” Tom said. “How about yore arm? Is it pretty bad? Do you figure you can make it?”

“Make it? I’ve got to. But I ain’t right happy with that arm. The blue whistler must have smashed a bone in my elbow. It’s sure sending me plenty of notice where it’s at.”

“I could tie it up, if we stopped.”

“No, sir. We’ll keep going.”

Tom looked back. “No sign of ’em yet. If we’re lucky, those fellows back there will never catch us.”

“If they’re lucky, you mean. Some of ’em would sure go to sleep in smoke if they come too close.”

They rode swiftly across the hills, drawing nearer to the band of horses. The animals had recovered from their fright and were grazing on bunch grass when the riders reached them. It proved to be no trouble to swing them into a draw and head the leaders toward the road.

“They’re our horses all right,” Slade said.

“We’ve picked up a bigger bunch than they stole,” Tom replied. “But I reckon the company can use ’em.”

“Good thing for Joe Slade you decided to follow their trail a while ago when you struck it.... How far back is the bull train?”

Tom noticed that the man was drooping in the saddle, that his shoulders were sagging and his voice tired.

“Not so far.” Tom ranged alongside of him and unfastened from the saddle his canteen.

Slade took a drink.

“I’ll tie a wet handkerchief round yore arm,” Tom said.

He did so. The older man swayed a little in the saddle.

“Don’t you let me quit long as you can prod me with a goad,” the superintendent said. “If I play out, get up behind me and head for the bull outfit.”

“Rivers is right good with wounds. We’ll make it there, Mr. Slade.”

“Yep. Stay by me, boy.” Slade grinned, ruefully. “I’ve been shot up, se-ve-re-al times. Old Jules ordered a coffin for me one time, but I fooled him. It kinda annoys me that I’m feeling so puny. I never was so plumb tired of one little doggone bullet before. It hit my funny bone, I expect.”

They plodded on, Slade clinging to the horn as he drooped more and more. Tom rode knee to knee with him, one arm around the waist of the wounded man. The recovered horses jogged on in front of them.

They reached the road of the Overland Trail. In the distance, Tom could see a cloud of yellow dust made by a large outfit. Probably this was the bull train.

“We’re real close,“ Tom said by way of comfort.

For answer, Slade lurched forward in the saddle.

Tom swung down and caught the body, propping it along the neck of the horse. He took the reins and moved forward, one arm steadying the limp figure in the saddle.

It seemed to him that they travelled miles. Sometimes he looked back to make sure they were not pursued.

The bull train drew near. A man cantered out from it toward him. He saw that it was Rivers.

“Found the horses, did you?” he called. Then, catching sight of the wounded man, he asked another question. “What’s wrong? Who you got there?”

“Mr. Slade,” answered Tom. “The Wilson gang shot him up. They stole the stock an’ we brought it back.”

“Slade!” exclaimed Rivers, astonished.

The wounded man raised his body with some effort. “They laid a trap to kill me. This boy here saved me. I’m feeling mighty trifling. You’ll have to put me on one of the wagons, Sim.”

Rivers lifted him from the saddle.