Four other riders had come into sight, riding in from the west, and traveling fast, as if attempting to cut in ahead of King. One of them fired a shot, and it appeared to Hashknife as if King almost fell off his horse.
“Stick here and keep shootin’,” ordered Hashknife, backing out through the brush. “I’ve got to make a call.”
Sleepy blinked through his tears at Hashknife, who was running low toward his horse. Sleepy wiped his stinging eyes with the back of his hand and settled down again.
“I’ll stick here,” he said aloud. “But I won’t guarantee to do any shootin’. That danged cow thief down there almost rocked me to sleep.”
Hashknife reached his horse, mounted on the run and spurred away in the direction taken by King. He topped the rise, riding high in his saddle, but could see nothing either of the pursued or the pursuers. He remembered that there had been several riders below the old shack when the battle started, and he wondered if they had circled to attack them from the rear.
But Hashknife did not waste much time in speculation. As fast as his horse could run they went across that broken land of sage and greasewood, heading northeast. He could not hear the shooting now. It was slightly uphill now and the horse was tiring fast, but Hashknife showed no mercy on his mount.
Off to the east, beyond the next ridge, several shots were fired, but Hashknife did not alter his course. He tore his way up through the brush and swung on to the old road. He drew rein long enough to scan the country, but there was nothing in sight. Then he spurred on, heading toward the Turkey Track.
Again he heard the faraway snap of a shot; too far away to interest him now. At the same spot where he had watched the Turkey Track with Sleepy and Jack Hartwell, he dismounted and left his exhausted horse, head down in the greasewood thicket.
A cautious scrutiny of the Turkey Track ranch house showed him that there was no one in sight, so he circled to the left, keeping himself concealed, until he was almost at the rear of the place. Then he ran swiftly across the open space at the rear of the house and slid into the willows along Deer Creek. For several moments he remained quiet, watching the house. He had been forced to cross in the open, and there was a possibility of being seen.
Satisfied that no one had discovered him, he went swiftly down through the willows until he was at the corral. Just beyond was the big stable, and about a hundred feet beyond was the bunk house, a low building. To the right was the ranch house.