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.