CHAPTER XXXII
WINNING A FIGHT
After Sanderson shot the big man who had tried to rush him, there was a silence in the defile. Those of Dale's men who had positions of security held them, not exposing themselves to the deadly fire of Sanderson and the others.
For two hours Sanderson clung to his precarious position in the fissure, until his muscles ached with the strain and his eyes blurred because of the constant vigil. But he grimly held the place, knowing that upon him depended in a large measure the safety of the men on the opposite side of the defile.
The third hour was beginning when Sanderson saw a puff of smoke burst from behind a rock held by one of his men; he heard the crash of a pistol, and saw one of Dale's men flop into view from behind a rock near him.
Sanderson's smile was a tribute to the vigilance of his men. Evidently the Dale man, fearing Sanderson's inaction might mean that he was seeking a new position from where he could pick off more of his enemies, had shifted his own position so no part of his body was exposed to Sanderson.
He had wriggled around too far, and the shot from Sanderson's man had been the result.
The man was not dead; Sanderson could see him writhing. He was badly wounded, too, and Sanderson did not shoot, though he could have finished him.
But the incident drew Sanderson's attention to the possibilities of a new position. He had thought at first that he had climbed as high in the fissure as he dared without exposing himself to the fire of the Dale men; but examining the place again he saw that he might, with exceeding caution, take another position about twenty feet farther on.
He decided to try. Letting himself down until his feet struck a flat rock projection, he rested. Then, the weariness dispersed, he began to climb, shoving his rifle between his body and the cartridge belt around his waist.
It took him half an hour to reach the point he had decided upon, and by that time the sun had gone far down into the hazy western distance, and a glow—saffron and rose and violet—like a gauze curtain slowly descending—warned him that twilight was not far away.
Sanderson determined to finish the battle before the darkness could come to increase the hazard, and when he reached the spot in the fissure he hurriedly took note of the strategical points of the position.
There was not much concealment for his body. He was compelled to lie flat on his stomach to be certain that no portion of his body was exposed; and he found a place in a little depression at the edge of the fissure that seemed suitable. Then he raised his head above the little ridge that concealed him from his enemies.
He saw them all—every man of them. Some of them were crouching; some were lying prone—apparently resting; still others were sitting, their backs against their protection—waiting.
Sanderson took his rifle by the barrel and with the stock forced a channel through some rotted rock on the top of the little ridge that afforded him concealment. When he had dug the channel deeply enough—so that he could aim the weapon without exposing his head—he stuck the rifle barrel into the channel and shouted to the Dale men:
"This game is played out, boys! I'm behind you. You can't hide any longer. I give you fair warning that if you don't come out within a minute, throwin' your guns away an' holdin' up your hands, I'll pick you off, one by one! That goes!"
There was sincerity in Sanderson's voice, but the men doubted. Sanderson saw them look around, but it was plain to him that they could not tell from which direction his voice came.
"Bluffin'!" scoffed a man who was in plain view of Sanderson; the very man, indeed, upon whom Sanderson had his rifle trained.
"Bluffin', eh?" replied Sanderson grimly. "I've got a bead on you. At the end of one minute—if you don't toss your guns away and step out, holdin' up your hands, I'll bore you—plenty!"
Half a minute passed and the man did not move. He was crouching, and his gaze swept the edge of the fissure from which Sanderson's voice seemed to come. His face was white, his eyes wide with the fear of death.
Just when it seemed that Sanderson must shoot to make his statement and threat convincing, the man shouted:
"This game's too certain—for me, I'm through!"
He threw his weapons away, so that they went bounding and clattering to the foot of the slope. Then he again faced the fissure, shouting:
"I know I've caved, an' you know I've caved. But what about them guys on the other side, there? They'll be blowin' me apart if I go to showin' myself."
Sanderson called to Williams and the others, telling them the men were going to surrender, and warning them to look out for treachery.
"If one of them tries any monkey-shines, nail him!" he ordered. "There's eleven of them that ain't been touched—an' some more that ain't as active as they might be. But they can bend a gun handy enough. Don't take any chances!"
Sanderson ordered the man to step out. He did so, gingerly, as though he expected to be shot. When he was in plain view of Sanderson's men, Sanderson ordered him to descend the slope and stand beside a huge rock ledge. He watched while the man descended; then he called to the others:
"Step up an' take your medicine! One at a time! Guns first. Williams!" he called. "You get their guns as fast as they come down. I'll see that none of them plug you while you're doin' it!"
There was no hitch in the surrender; and no attempt to shoot Williams. One by one the men dropped their weapons down the slope.
When all the men had reached the bottom of the defile Sanderson climbed down and asked the first man who had surrendered where they had left their horses. The animals were brought, and the men forced to mount them. Then, the Dale men riding ahead, Sanderson and the others behind, they began the return trip.
When they reached the open country above the defile, Sanderson rode close to Williams.
"There's enough of you to take care of this gang," he said, indicating the prisoners; "I'm goin' to hit the breeze to the Double A an' see what's happened there!"
"Sure!" agreed Williams. "Beat it!"
When Streak got the word he leaped forward at a pace that gave Williams an idea of how he had gained his name. He flashed by the head of the moving columns and vanished into the growing darkness, running with long, swift, sure leaps that took him over the ground like a feather before a hurricane.
But fast as he went, he did not travel too rapidly for Sanderson. For in Sanderson's heart also lurked a premonition of evil. But he did not fear it; it grimmed his lips, it made his eyes blaze with a wanton, savage fire; it filled his heart with a bitter passion to slay the man who had stayed behind at the Double A ranchhouse.
And he urged Streak to additional effort, heading him recklessly through sections of country where a stumble meant disaster, lifting him on the levels, and riding all the time with only one thought in mind—speed, speed, speed.