“You’re shoutin’,” Tex grinned.
They rode down the draw from the spring, each striving to fix in his mind the contours of the surrounding landscape. They took bearings on the ragged peaks of the Bear Paws in the northwest, on the Little Rockies that broke the sky line eastward. And they watched closely the lay of the land as they rode so that later they could back track.
The draw closed to a narrow gulch. That fell away steeply into a canyon bottom, fairly wide, level-floored, gray with sage stirrup-high. A good many cattle grazed on those flats. This narrow valley came in from the south. They judged that it offered a continuous route to the Missouri, if it was not actually a fork of Cow Creek. They stopped a minute to consider this, to mark the gulch they had come down. Below them the canyon took a sharp turn to the east. Opposite this point a gorge came down from the high benches. Its mouth was cluttered by pine and cottonwoods. There would be shelter there and firewood, probably water. They shook up their horses and discussed the making of a night camp.
As they came abreast of the cottonwoods and while yet some three hundred yards distant Matthews, riding knee to knee with Robin, straightened stiffly in his saddle, put one hand to his breast. Robin happened to be looking directly at him—Tex had been speaking. Robin saw the action, the strange look of surprise and pain. At the same moment something plucked sharply at the leather band of Robin’s chaps—and he heard two quick, clear cracks somewhat muffled in the distance.
Thought, vision, the registering of an auditory impression—all three were instantaneous. So was action. Being fired upon they did not stand to gape. Their horses spun on shod heels. A hundred yards away the dry bed of the creek was cut ten feet below the surface of the valley floor. Into this they plunged, bullets whining by.
Once in the wash Robin threw his horse back on his haunches, jerked the carbine from under his leg, flung out of his saddle. With the bank for a breastwork he meant to fight, not run.
A sidelong glance as he turned showed him Tex drooping over his saddle horn. Robin stepped back. His heart sank. He knew the signs.
“Ride, kid,” Tex whispered. “Ride like hell. They’ve got me—got me good!”
Robin caught him as he slid down, as the horse shied at the falling body. In an agony of sorrow and rage Robin looked once, bent to see the glaze gathering over the Texan’s blue eyes. Then he leaped to the edge of the bank. Lying flat with his rifle cocked and thrust out before him he waited for the assassins to follow up their advantage.