As the fraction of a second passed Robinson’s head jerked up to a sound. He heard the crack of a rifle lifting to him—so swiftly had the whole affair passed! It was the shot which killed Knute; the rifle crack that followed the bullet.
Robinson stared around. The country appeared empty, the rolling hills desolate, the brown strip of road quite bare of any person. Whence had come that shot?
“Somebody quite a distance off had the pleasure of saving my life,” said Robinson reflectively. “Well, if he doesn’t want to show himself—I’m satisfied! I wasted a good lie on Matt Brady; too bad he didn’t get to go to town and investigate his brother’s trouble. Murder trap? Not the first these two gentlemen have laid, I’ll bet! They sure caught me, all right. Would have had me, except for the unknown friend. Friend, I thank you!”
He swept off his black Stetson, waved it to the nearest hill, and rode on his way.
“Here’s hoping the verdict will be that Knute and Brady killed each other,” he thought. “Maybe it won’t and maybe it will, depending on who the jury are and how well they can read tracks. Chances are that I won’t be mentioned; this country seems to favor direct action rather than legal inquiry. Ho, hum! Matt came near to spoiling my nice new black hat by putting his bullet through it. That’s what happens to a slow man. I’d sure hate to be slow around here, you bet! But I’d admire to know who handled that rifle in the brush. Couldn’t even make out where it was, what direction. Interesting country, Pahrump! I certainly think the geological formations are fine.”
Two men dead—well, it was a serious matter enough, and promised to grow darker with time. Matt Brady and Knute were evidently used to working together; their trap had been well prepared, well sprung. Only the presence of some unknown watcher had saved Robinson from that side bullet. Who was the person? Not Miguel Cervantes, for the native had carried no rifle.
Robinson jogged along, his mind busy with the situation of Estella Shumway. There were some things he did not understand, but comprehension would come in course of time. Templeton Buck seemed to be the big power in the county, to judge from that conversation in Galway Mike’s place, and Buck apparently had it all fixed to take over the Shumway ranch in the near future—and Estella likewise.
Upon passing the turnout that led to the Running Dog, Robinson drew rein and studied the ground in some surprise. He had followed the back trail of Brady and Knute, but to his astonishment saw that they had not come from the Running Dog at all. They had come from some point beyond it—and the only point beyond it that Robinson knew of was Jake Harper’s ranch. This looked queer.
Robinson passed on, wondering why these Running Dog men had come from the Circle Bar, particularly as Jake Harper and Templeton Buck were not friends. That would mean bad blood between the two outfits.
“Time will tell that, too, and the afternoon’s drawing along,” thought Robinson. “We’d better travel along, little doggies! Hit her up, Johnny boy, and we’ll feast to-night with the Injun fighter and frontier guardian. Oh, shucks! Here’s another guy coming with a rifle and looks like business in his eye, too!”