“Aw, that won’t do no good. We’ve got to git above ’em and shoot down. Yuh can’t see a damn thing in this brush.”
“You do it—I can’t. That arm hurts—yeow! Look out! They’re throwin’ rocks, too! That’n hit me in the back. Get down!”
For several minutes there was not a sound. Henry hugged the rocks and listened. He knew that any movement must make a noise. Then he heard a man crashing brush, stumbling, panting. He stopped at the foot of the slope, but went on up, his breathing plainly audible. Henry tried to see who he was, but the brush was too thick. Then he heard a thud, a muffled cry, and a crash.
“Who was that?” one of the masked men called.
“I presume it was one of your friends,” replied Judge’s voice. “He stopped a rock. Now, if you will kindly show yourselves—”
“You blasted old fool!” snarled one of the men, and fired three shots in Judge’s general direction, but all it brought was a derisive laugh from the deputy.
Henry, peering through the brush, saw a movement, caught a flash of color. He steadied the gun over the rock, holding it in both hands, and squeezed the trigger. The rattling report brought a yell of pain, and a general scurrying around in the brush. A man was cursing, and Henry heard him say:
“We’ve got to git out of here, I tell yuh! I’ve got some busted ribs. If the boys ain’t finished—we can’t help it.”
“Lettin’ two old fossils like that whip us,” complained the other man. “Pull yore shirt tight over them ribs, can’tcha?”
From far up the canyon came the rattling report of a gun.