“Gone to jail in Meteorite, I guess. That greaser with him was killed.”
“What!” Jimson looked startled; then he frowned. “You’re a cussed liar! What’s this you’re pulling off, anyhow? Sidewinder would never have told you to wait out here before telling us all this. March over here—leave that rifle where it lays! Quick, now, or I’ll drill you!”
The voices had risen shrill and distinct on the quiet air of the dawn, and had quite accomplished the purpose for which Ramsay hoped. Jimson caught a movement on the hillside from the corner of his eye, and turned—but his pistol did not swing quickly enough. The roar of a forty-five crashed out, then again. Gentleman Jimson, with a look of frightful astonishment, dropped his automatic, took two staggering steps, then slumped face down.
Sagebrush, standing on the hillside to the right, emitted a whoop of exultation.
“Ye will crowd me and my pardner, will ye? Reckon that’s one reward I’ll collect.” Suddenly his voice rose shrill. “Hey, Per-fesser! Look out—hosses comin’!”
Ramsay, already scrambling for his rifle, heard the pounding of many hoofs and sprang up, wildly startled by that shrill cry. He saw, coming in upon him from the desert, a mass of horses. One glance at Sagebrush, and he caught sight of the latter staggering out of sight—then rifles cracked. A bullet sang past his head.
With a leap, Ramsay darted toward his only protection, the hole in the wall. He jumped the motionless body of Jimson, turned, and began firing. The scream of a frantic horse answered his first shot; then bullets began to whang on the rock around him. He saw that a dozen or more horses were charging in, had a vision of two men firing; then he slipped back into the ten-foot passage, with the rush of animals at his very heels.
As he ran for the other side, a curse broke from his lips. Sagebrush was shot down, and their whole scheme of action was disrupted. It was plain enough that two of the gang were returning with stolen horses—
They were upon him, and nothing saved him from trampling but a hasty shot from under his arm. At the report, a horse leaped high and then came down kicking. Something struck Ramsay as he gained the inner opening of the passage, struck him and sent him headlong to one side. He crashed down, rolled over, picked himself up. A rifle roared above him; the bullet sang by his face; and as he himself fired, he had a swift vision of a bearded rider flinging out arms and pitching forward. Then he was working the bolt, looking for the other horsethief, as the rush of animals swept past and went pounding up the grassy cañon. No other appeared.
Ramsay stood panting, waiting, rifle ready. Twenty feet away lay the outlaw he had shot from the saddle—but where was the other? From the other end of the cañon lifted faint shouts of men; the gang there were alarmed, but it was still too dark for them to make out anything.