The Buckaroo of Blue Wells

by W. C. Tuttle

It took them several minutes to cross the cañon, and he saw them draw rein in the heavy cover, where they stayed for about five minutes, evidently studying the ranch buildings. Their elevation gave them a good view of the whole country.

Finally they rode down toward the stable. Hashknife was unable to recognize them, nor did he recognize their horses—a roan and a gray. Softly Hashknife went back to his former position at the window. He heard the riders come in behind the stable, where they stopped. After a few moments he heard them in the stable, talking softly. One of them laughed, but their conversation was too indistinct for Hashknife to hear what was said.

He was so intent on listening that he was not aware they were out of the stable, until he turned his head and saw them going into the patio.

It rather amused Hashknife to see that these men were both masked. One of them went to the ranch-house door, finding it locked. It was evident to Hashknife that these men were sure that every one had left the ranch. They conferred together for a moment, and one of them came toward Hashknife, stopping on the ruins of the bunk-house, while the other man swung up on the wall near the corner of the ranch-house and scanned the country.

Slowly Hashknife slid back across the floor, until he reached the ladder, which led down from the loft. He went down the ladder and walked softly to the door, where he peered around the edge. He could hear the sound of some one digging; the dull thud of adobe bricks being thrown aside, but he could not see either of the men now.

Drawing his six-shooter Hashknife went slowly and carefully across the space between the stable door and the patio wall. He could hear the digging plainly now. Then he heard one of the men snap out a curse. It was evidently the man on the wall, because the answering voice was just beyond—

“What’s the matter?”

“That —— posse must ’a’ seen us! They’re comin’!”

The two men were running now, and Hashknife expected them to come through the broken wall past him, but instead they went out the south entrance of the patio, possibly with the intention of keeping the ranch buildings between them and the approaching posse, and circling back to their horses.

Disregarding the fact that the odds were two to one, Hashknife ran swiftly along the wall, coming out within fifty feet of the two men, who were humped over, running as low as possible. There was no time for them to turn; nothing to do but fight or surrender. It was still a hundred feet to the cover of the brush, and Hashknife was between them and the stable. But neither of them thought of surrender. Hashknife fired, as the two men whirled to a stop and drew their guns. One of them went to his knees, and his bullet tore up a spurt of dust half-way between him and Hashknife, and the other man’s bullet sang wide of its target. He fired again, but his bullet went skyward, because the shock of Hashknife’s next bullet threw him backward. The man who was on his knees fired again, but so wildly that Hashknife did not even hear the bullet.