Puffs of white smoke blossomed out behind them. A bullet, spent and far short, dropped away to their left, sending up a geyser of sand.
"I guess we'll fight now," Kid Wolf said, drawing his six-guns.
The grim-faced fighter from Texas knew the ways of the Apaches and was prepared for what followed. It was not his first encounter with renegade red men of the Southwest. He was also aware of what awaited them if they were taken captive. Death with lead would be far more merciful.
The line of Apache warriors spread out even farther. Blizzard was speeding over a flat table-land now, flanked by two ridges of iron-gray hills. A file of Indians separated from the main body and raced along the left-hand ridge. Another file of copper-brown, half-naked savages drummed along to the right.
Rifle fire crackled and flashed. Bullets now began to buzz and whine like infuriated insects. Arrows, falling far short, whistled an angry tune. The Kid held his fire and bade Dave Robbins follow his example. It was no time to waste lead.
"Go, Blizzahd, like yo' nevah went befo'!" cried the Texan.
The beautiful white horse seemed to realize its master's danger. It ran on courage alone. Its nostrils were expanded wide, its flanks and neck foam-flecked. The steel muscles rippled under its snowy hide, until it seemed to fly like a winged thing. But it is one thing to carry a hundred and sixty pounds; another thing to bear nearly three hundred. The pace could not last.
Kid Wolf pinned his hopes on reaching a deep arroyo ahead of them. Already the range was becoming deadly. A bullet ripped through the Texan's hat. Another burned his side. Directly behind them, Garvey and his gunmen—the two Arnolds, Henry Shank, and Stephenson—pounded furiously, gaining at every jump. Their mounts were better than those of the Indians, and Kid Wolf saw that they must be stopped at all costs.
For the first time, his guns belched flame. The two Arnolds went down, unhorsed. Even in that desperate moment, Kid Wolf hesitated to kill until it was necessary. The Arnolds, however, were out of the chase for good and all. Stephenson also felt the crippling sting of the Texan's lead and toppled from his mount, drilled high in the shoulder.
Henry Shank and Gil Garvey, shaken at The Kid's marksmanship, drew in their horses, unwilling to press closer. That gave Blizzard his chance to make the shelter of the arroyo. Suddenly it yawned at their feet—a terrific jump. Would Blizzard take it? A reassuring pressure of a knee was all the inspiration the horse needed. They seemed to rush through the air. Then they were sliding down the bank in a cloud of dust, Blizzard tense and stiff-legged. By a miracle, they reached the bottom unhurt, and without losing a second, Kid Wolf headed his faithful mount into a thick paloverde clump.