Somewhere a coyote sent up his plaintive cry, an eery sound in the silent hills. To the left of the leader a stick snapped and he jerked up his horse. The caravan stopped. The packhorse tried to nose past the leader, who swore softly and struck it across the nose with a rope end.
“All right,” called the leader softly and started ahead.
From the left came the crashing report of a rifle, and the lead horse lunged forward, falling head first, throwing its rider into the brush. Another shot, and another, crashed out from the depths of the brush, while the other three riders whirled their horses out of the bottom of the swale, firing back at the flashes of powder.
The leader was running up the side of the slope, calling for one of the men to wait for him. The packhorse whirled and ran the opposite way, crashing through the brush. The hillside was flashing with rifle and revolver shots, although those in ambush were still keeping under cover and holding a decided advantage.
The riders were drawing farther away now. The leader had succeeded in mounting behind one of the other riders. Then they disappeared over the ridge and the firing stopped. The packhorse had crossed the ridge to the left, lunging through the heavy brush, trying to fight its way into open country, but a man ran out and grasped the flying rope, whirling the horse to a stop on the rocky slope.
Three more men swiftly gathered around the pack animal, and hurried it down through a cañon and out the other side, where four horses were tethered. They mounted swiftly and flogged the pack animal into a run, down across the broken slopes and onto a rutty road, which ran northwest into the hills.
As before the lead rider took care of the packhorse, while the rest bunched behind, swinging a rope end across the pack animal’s rump at the least sign of slowing down.
There was nothing cautious about their progress. It seemed that above all things they desired speed. Perhaps they were afraid that the other riders might intercept them, as they kept a close watch at the ridges to the north and east.
The reports of the rifle and revolver shots carried for a long way in that thin atmosphere, and attracted the attention of three other riders, who were following a trail farther to the west. After a hasty consultation they swung to the right and rode as swiftly as possible, heading northwest.
Straight up the rutty old road pounded the four men with the pack animal, heading for a low pass in the hills where the old road wound down to Pinnacle. They were almost to the summit, when the three riders flashed into view, coming swiftly down a broken hogback, clearly outlined against the sky.