Johnny was leading the posse two hours later when he signaled to the other men. “Rig comin’,” he called as they moved within hearing distance. “Ought to pass it just about where the road forks. Let’s hit it up a little.”
Riding in close formation, they began rapidly to diminish the distance between themselves and the oncoming team.
“Driver asleep, him,” the keen-eyed Charlie called to Johnny.
“Sorry, but we’ll have to disturb him,” Johnny answered. “Better spread out, boys. That team is runnin’.”
In ten minutes the team was almost up with them.
“Whoa, there!” Johnny cried, but the driver paid no attention to the hail. “Look out!” the boy shouted to Doc Ritter. “I’ll yank ’em as they go by.”
Whirling his horse, Johnny planted himself in the path of the galloping team. A mad dive for a bridle strap, and he had the off horse on its haunches. “Grab the gray, Charlie!” he cried to the Indian.
Charlie Paul’s hands shot out, and in another second the team was halted. Johnny took a look at the driver, who had slipped to the floor of the rig, his face blood-stained; blank, wide-open eyes staring up at the sky.
“There you are, Jim,” Johnny shouted to Kelsey as he recognized the blood-smeared face. “It’s Toby Gale! They got him, just as I said they would.”
“God!” Kelsey moaned. “He’s all banged up, ain’t he? Give me a hand, and we’ll get him out of the wagon.”