CHAPTER XX.
NOMAD’S STRANGE WEAPON.
When Little Cayuse rode from view of his companions he had suddenly come in full view of a pair of horsemen, leading two ponies, galloping down the gully which opened at Navi’s feet. As the Indian youth looked for the most favorable spot from which to make the leap to the sand below, he discovered a fuse spluttering in the dead grass and almost under Navi’s feet. Cayuse jerked his heels to the pinto’s sides, and the little fellow bounded ahead and over the brink just as the explosion came. At the bottom both boy and pony were buried in the shower of sand and gravel which followed the explosion, but neither was injured.
As Cayuse and Navi scrambled out of the sand into a settling cloud of dust which hid them from view and probably saved both from becoming the target of the fugitives, old Nomad burst into view over the crest of the hill and through the smoke and dust.
Both the outlaws fired at the trapper, one pinking the flesh at the point of his shoulder. But old Nomad had been waiting too long for excitement to hesitate at the first smell of powder. Driving the spurs to Hide-rack’s sides without a glance at the trail he was taking, the trapper found himself flying through the air, or, rather, a veil of dust, to land in a heap with the surprised Hide-rack. Over they went, the rider luckily escaping injury from the flying feet of the excited and struggling horse.
By the time Nomad had regained his feet he could see Cayuse just rounding an angle in the wall fifty rods away.
“Waugh! Hide-rack! Yip-yip-yar-r-r! Git out ov it, ye heifercat! What ye rollin’ round hyar in ther sand fer? Ye hain’t goin’ ter let thet aire red-blooded, no-’count Navi beat ye, be ye?”
Hide-rack shook his head, and little sprays of sand flew out from each ear.
“That’s ther stuff! Git ther sand outer yore ears, an’ mebbe ye c’n hyar me murmur. Mebbeso I mought shake my head ef ther aujience don’t object, an’ then I could make out if theys any more explosions.
“Waugh! Ther next time I goes in swimmin’ I hopes ther water won’t be so r’ily. Ugh! Gut sand enough in my crop ter make er estridge boozy. Shirt feels ’zef ’twas made er sandpaper. By ther tarnation ten spots! I b’lieves ther pesky lead peddler teched me—ther’ seems ter be mud on thet thar left shoulder er mine. Howsomever, I cyant bother ’th thet when the’s more due me an’ er plumb good chanst ter c’lect up.
“Waugh! Hide-rack! Don’t ye think ye better shake yer heels er bit! Mebbe the’s sand in yer butes, ’cause why ye don’t ketch up ter thet redskin varmint down front.”