Allen laughed aloud, as he shoved new cartridges in his rifle.
“She’s part cat. Keep goin’—’cause those gents is comin’ fast.”
The two Mexican gunmen, who had gone to intercept Allen, if he tried to backtrack, were whipping and spurring to head him off from the creek.
Up on the slope Anderson was cursing. One of Ace Cutts’ men gave him a horse. He glanced down across the meadow, in time to see Allen and Snippets vanish among the willows.
“Them hosses of hisn is wonders,” cried the Yuma Kid.
“Them greasers is plumb foolish to follow him in there,” Baldy cackled. The two Mexicans headed straight for the willows. They were within fifty yards of where Allen had vanished, when two muffled reports came to the watchers’ ears, and two fleecy puffs of smoke appeared above the thicket. The leading Mexican fell from his pony, limp as a sack of flour; the other wheeled his horse and headed back. But he had not gone twenty yards before he started to sway and, a moment later, he crashed to the ground.
“Tole yuh they was fools,” Baldy stated without emotion.
Anderson cursed again. With the others at his heels, he crossed the meadow and plunged among the willows some four hundred yards upstream from the spot where Allen had entered. They splashed across the shallow stream and emerged from the undergrowth on the farther side. From there they could see Allen and Snippets fully half a mile ahead. Anderson realized that pursuit was almost useless, but it would be disastrous for them if Allen reached town; so they spurred their horses and started after the distant grays.
Two miles farther on a group of twenty riders appeared from a hollow and galloped forward to intercept them. With muttered curses, Anderson and his killers checked their horses, swung about and raced for the lava fields.
Jim Hogg’s continued raving had at last borne fruit. That morning Tom Powers had been forced to form a posse to hunt for Snippets.