“What’s happened?” demanded Ramsay.
“Hell’s to pay, that’s what! If I thought you were behind it, I’d leave you here to the buzzards. Dunno but what I will anyhow.”
Ramsay, frowning in perplexity, came closer to him.
“What do you mean?” he inquired. Sidewinder flung out a hand toward the desert behind him.
“I mean that the sheriff’s got on our trail; that’s what! Prob’ly trailed that last bunch of hosses. Now we got to get along to Hourglass Cañon, and we’ll take you and the girl so’s ye wont do no talkin’.”
“Oh!” said Ramsay, and then lifted his eyes to the desert. “Is that dust caused by their car?”
An oath on his lips, Sidewinder whirled—and Ramsay struck.
He struck straight and hard, mercilessly so, and his fist caught Sidewinder just behind the ear. The little man was knocked off his feet, knocked headlong into the radiator of the car, and fell in a limp and senseless heap, stunned.
Ramsay, carried off his balance by the furious energy of his own blow, staggered. As he did so, a pistol barked and a bullet scraped his very hair. He came around, to see Tom Emery and Cholo Bill, who were not yet fifty feet away, in the act of firing on him.
A leap, and he was behind the car. No protection here from heavy bullets—but he had his own pistol out now, and was taking his chances. A bullet crashed into the frame of the car. Another smashed the windshield. Ramsay was firing, rapidly but coolly. Now he ducked swiftly to the other end of the car, darted out into full sight, took two quick, sure shots. He saw Cholo Bill go down and lie quiet; then Emery came for him on the run, red whiskers flaming in the sunlight, pistol spitting.