“Carry it over yore shoulder,” advised Sleepy. “We better go back and give these horses to the sheriff. It’ll be daylight pretty soon, and I’m sleepy.”
“Might as well,” agreed Hashknife. “No tellin’ where that train is by this time, so there’s no use chasin’ it.”
They climbed back on their horses and rode toward the river. It would be daylight in less than two hours, and they were both weary. The horses splashed into the ford and surged through the knee-deep water over to the other bank, where the old road wound its way up through a willow thicket to the higher ground.
And as they rode slowly up through the heavy shadows of the thicket, a gun flashed almost in their faces. It was so close that the burning powder seemed to splatter them. With a lurching scramble the two horses broke into a frightened run, while behind them two more guns spat fire.
The horses needed little urging, as they ran blindly along the old side-hill road.
“Hit yuh?” yelled Hashknife anxiously.
“Burnt me!” yelped Sleepy angrily. “Yanked all the feelin’ out of my left arm.” He was half turned in his saddle, looking back.
“Don’t shoot,” advised Hashknife. “Don’t waste ammunition.”
Their belts and extra ammunition were on that cattle-train, and all they had were the six cartridges in each gun.
“They’re comin’, —— ’em!” snorted Hashknife, catching a fleeting glimpse of several horses running toward them over a high spot in the road. “That sheriff never gave us race horses, that’s a cinch.”