“Wait! Hold yer hosses fer a bit.”
They heard the few answering scattering shots fired by the fleeing attackers; then the firing died out. Pete, with head cocked to one side, interpreted the sounds and the silence aright.
“Yer folks have got ’em on the run. Reckon we’ll be goin’. Jest jog along so thet we don’t run into somethin’ headlong,” he advised.
Tom Gray, worried and full of eagerness to get into action, had to put a firm check on himself to keep from racing on in the lead of his companion. Ahead of them somewhere they knew that Hippy Wingate was on the lookout for the horse thieves, and so long as nothing was heard from him there appeared to be no need for haste, but while Tom’s every faculty was centered on what lay ahead of them, Two-gun Pete, like the mustang he was riding, gave as much attention to the rear as he did to what was ahead.
A flash suddenly leaped up in the darkness ahead, followed by a sharp report. Then guns banged with a speed that reminded Tom Gray of nights on the firing line in France.
“He’s met ’em! Ride!” yelled Two-gun Pete, putting spurs to his horse.
Tom needed no urging, nor did his pony. The little animal uttered a whistling snort and plunged ahead, its nose at the flank of Pete’s flying mustang.
“He’s Met ’Em! Ride!”
“He’s turned ’em!” flung back Pete. “They aire headin’ ’cross the valley. That feller shore has got nerve.”