“Ain’t you got no sense, Sierra?” demanded Pete disgustedly. “Don’t ye do thet agin. Them fellers aire waitin’ fer us to give them a show, an’ I reckon they’ll hang out in the foothills fer some time yit. Anybody know these critters?”
Each cowboy took a look at the victims, but none recognized them. The brand on the dead mustangs also was unknown to them.
“Can’t do nothin’ till daylight. Hit the trail agin,” ordered Pete, whereupon the search for Hippy Wingate was resumed. It was Tom Gray who found him, nearly a mile from their last stand.
“Help here!” shouted Tom.
Pete heard and understood. With the others, he spurred to the scene, finding Tom Gray on the ground bending over the stretched-out form of the fallen Overlander.
“Is he daid?” questioned Sierra anxiously.
“No. He is alive, but he must be badly hurt. He has been here for some time and is still unconscious. That looks bad. Boys, we must get him to camp as quickly as possible. How shall we do it?”
“I’ll take him on my ’tang,” answered Pete. “Wait till I git up; then boost him up to me and I’ll do the rest. Nevada, you ride back a piece to make sure thet we ain’t followed, an’ give us a good start. You kin come on in then.”
Hippy’s limp form was lifted into Two-gun Pete’s arms, and giving the pony the reins, Pete touched the animal with a light spur and the journey back to camp was begun. It was not a gentle ride for the wounded Overlander. In fact it was a killing ride, and when they came in sight of the campfire, the pony was white with lather.
It was at this juncture that Hippy began to mutter and struggle.