No more was said, but both men swerved their mounts farther out into the valley to head off the fleeing horsemen, and drew up on them slowly. Pete saw that Hippy Wingate was fighting with all the odds against him, but that he was holding his own. Had there been light, the Overlander would have been in a much more serious situation.
As the two men neared the scene of the fighting, Tom Gray uttered a long-drawn yell, which Hippy heard, recognized, and answered. The attackers heard too, and put on a fresh burst of speed. Observing this, Pete jerked his rifle from its holster and emptied his magazine at them. Up to this time, however, Tom Gray had not fired.
“No use. We aire losin’ ground,” shouted Pete. “Ride till we git close enough to use the barkers. I never was no good at long-range shootin’.”
A few moments later the horses of the ruffians became faintly discernible, and Pete rode straight at them. The ruffians were shooting as they raced, and Lieutenant Hippy Wingate was banging away at them and yelling like an Indian on the warpath. About this time Tom and Pete opened up with their revolvers. A pony went down and its rider was seen to plunge over its head. Pete jerked his mustang aside just in time to avoid running into the fallen man and horse. There were fully half a dozen of the supposed horse thieves, some of whom were leading other animals behind them, and it was these to whom Pete devoted his attention, believing that the led horses were stolen animals.
The three pursuers were spread out in fan shape now, Hippy Wingate on the extreme right, running in on the fleeing men head-on, then ducking and swinging out, after emptying his weapon at them.
“Hit!” he muttered as a sudden burning sensation was felt in the calf of his left leg. “Take that!” he yelled. Taking a desperate chance he rode right in among the scattered horsemen, hoping to cut them off and give his own companions an opportunity to do more effective work.
Hippy emptied two revolvers at the raiders, then all at once something suddenly seemed to snap in his head, and Hippy Wingate reeled in his saddle. Sudden and deeper darkness enveloped him, and Hippy fell forward on the neck of his mustang, both feet slipping from the stirrups. For a moment he clung there. He did not hear the scream of his pony as a bullet hit the plucky little animal, nor did he feel the impact when both he and the pony went down in the dust and lay motionless where they had fallen.
CHAPTER VII
A FIGHT TO A FINISH
“They are heading for the mountains!” shouted Tom as he and Two-gun Pete drew together.
“Yes, but we’ll chase ’em into the foothills afore we quit,” raged Pete. “Ain’t hit, be ye?”