"But he's wounded, terribly wounded."
He raised himself to look over. Cockney was lying on his stomach far out from cover. His left arm was horribly unnatural, but his right held the gun pointed at the rock behind which Dakota lay.
A flash of movement brought an immediate report from Cockney's revolver, and Dakota's gun rattled out on the open ledge. A second shot sent it far out of reach.
Cockney's plan was evident: Dakota was not to be allowed to take aim. The cowboy was a two-gun man, Cockney knew. A Stetson showed above the rock, but Cockney ignored it; bits of rock jerked up in the air but failed to draw fire. Suddenly Dakota exposed his second gun and fired, Cockney returning it instantly. Both seemed to have missed. The chance shot was repeated from the other side of the rock, and Cockney failed to reply.
For a minute or two the battle waned. Dakota tried a third shot. Both guns spoke together. Stamford, his eyes held by the recklessness of the wounded rancher lying there in the open, saw one of his feet jerk. At the same moment Dakota's second gun jangled among the rocks, though it did not come into view. They waited for its reappearance, but evidently the shot had damaged it.
"He has a rifle, Cockney," Stamford shouted.
Cockney nodded without turning his head.
After a long time the rifle snapped, but it did not show. Twice it was repeated. Dakota was summoning his friends.
An answering volley burst out down the river, followed by the shouts of the cowboys. Dakota jeered.
"And now, Cockney Aikens, comes the end o' the chapter. I knew you been tracking us all summer. You've drawn your little share of the rustling manys a year without knowing it—but there'll not be a damn cent for you of the big bunch we're taking out to-night. Then we'll scoop all that's left—including dear little Mary and the girl there."