“Good for you, Hoppy!” came from the street. “We'll wait!”
“You stay here; yo're hurt too much!” cried Buck to his puncher, as he grabbed up a box of cartridges from a shelf behind the bar. “Ain't you got no sense? There's enough of us to take care of this without you!”
Hopalong wheeled and looked his foreman squarely in the eyes. “Red's out there, waiting for me—I'm going! I'd be a fine sort of a coyote to leave him in that hell hole an' not go back, wouldn't I!” he said, with quiet determination.
“Good for you, Cassidy!” cried a man who hastened out to mount.
“Well, then, come on,” replied Buck. “There's blamed few like you,” he muttered, following Hopalong outside.
“Here's the cayuse, Cassidy,” cried Cowan, turning the animal over to him. “Wait, Buck!” and he leaped into the building and ran out again, shoving a bottle of brandy and a package of food into the impatient foreman's hand. “Mebby Red or Hoppy'll need it—so long, an' good luck!” and he was alone in a choking cloud of dust, peering through the darkness along the river trail after a black mass that was swallowed up almost instantly. Then, as he watched, the moon pushed its rim up over the hills and he laughed joyously as he realized what its light would mean to the crowd. “There'll be great doings when that gang cuts loose,” he muttered with savage elation. “Wish I was with 'em. Damn Injuns, anyhow!”
Far ahead of the main fighting force rode the three special-duty men, reeling off the miles at top speed and constantly distancing their friends, for they changed mounts at need, thanks to the lead horses provided by Mr. Peters' cool-headed foresight. It was a race against dawn, and every effort was made to win—the life of Red Connors hung in the balance and a minute might turn the scale.
In Powers' old ranch house the night dragged along slowly to the grim watcher, and the man huddled in the corner stirred uneasily and babbled, ofttimes crying out in horror at the vivid dreams of his disordered mind. Pacing ceaselessly from window to window, crack to crack, when the moon came up, Mr. Connors scanned the bare, level plain with anxious eyes, searching out the few covers and looking for dark spots on the dull gray sand. They never attacked at night, but still—. Through the void came the quavering call of a coyote, and he listened for the reply, which soon came from the black chaparral across the clearing. He knew where two of them were hiding, anyhow. Holden was muttering and tried to answer the calls, and Red looked at him for the hundredth time that night. He glanced out of the window again and noticed that there was a glow in the eastern sky, and shortly afterwards dawn swiftly developed.
Pouring the last few drops of the precious water between the wounded man's parched and swollen lips, he tossed the empty canteen from him and stood erect.
“Pore devil,” he muttered, shaking his head sorrowfully, as he realized that Holden's delirium was getting worse all the time. “If you was all right we could give them wolves hell to dance to. Well, you won't know nothing about it if we go under, an' that's some consolation.” He examined his rifle and saw that the Colt at his thigh was fully loaded and in good working order. “An' they'll pay us for their victory, by God! They'll pay for it!” He stepped closer to the window, throwing the rifle into the hollow of his arm. “It's about time for the rush; about time for the game—”