“That makes ten. That tally all of ’em?” Rock asked.
“No, it don’t, darn it,” Charlie said. “Buck had six riders besides himself. This hombre from the North joined him with five. That’s thirteen. Coupla more somewhere. What you goin’ to do about this, Rock? We got ’em red-handed.”
“I guess the best bet is to go back and get the boys,” Rock whispered. “We got here unseen. The bunch can make it, if we go careful. Then we’ll surround these festive stock hands and see just what all this secret industry means.”
“I wonder if——”
Charlie’s wonder was cut short. He straightened out with a gasp, and the contortion of his body coincided with a sharp crack above, so close that it seemed in their very ears. Rock’s head twisted. He saw the upper half of a man’s body against the morning sky, on a bank above the brush that concealed their horses. He was drawing a careful bead on Rock with a rifle, and Rock rolled sidewise, thrusting up the muzzle of his carbine. Partly hidden in the long grass, Rock made a difficult target. Twice the lookout fired. Both bullets shaved Rock. He loosed two shots, himself, without effect, save to make the rifleman draw back. For the moment there was silence, while an echo went faintly back in the hills.
Lying flat, Rock parted the grass and looked over for Charlie Shaw. The boy had gone over the edge. His body had lodged against a cluster of wild cherry, twenty feet below. Another scalp for the enemy, Rock thought, with anger burning in him. But his wrath did not close his eyes. He saw that the men at the branding fire had dropped irons and were mounting, and that those in the corral were stepping their horses over lowered bars.
Of course they would have lookouts posted! And if that bunch of predatory thieves ever got on the bench above him, he was trapped. His own men couldn’t hear gunfire at that distance. It would be all off with him before they could buy into the game, anyway, if he had to face that bunch, single-handed, where he lay. Pretty fix! Rock gritted his teeth. He had been a little too sanguine—taken rather too long a chance. He had to move and move fast.
He began to worm himself hurriedly through the grass. Mount and ride; get out of gunshot and draw pursuit after him; decoy this enterprising aggregation right in under the guns of his own crew. Excellent! That would be a master stroke of retaliation. Rock’s nimble brain saw all this in illuminating flashes, while he moved.
The fellow above him kept firing at the quivering grass tops, shot after shot. Bullets bored into the mold beside him. He didn’t bother to shoot back. A kingdom for his horse—yes, two kingdoms! He could hear hoofs beating earth now. He found himself on the edge of the timber. Erect, four strides, a snatch at the tied macarte, the smack of his leg across the saddle, and he went crashing through the brush.