“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.