Bad News found an old single buggy under the shed and ran it out in the open. The harness was hanging just inside the stable door, and he threw it on the most likely looking horse, which was evidently the one used for that purpose.
He had hitched the horse to the buggy, when he looked toward the house. A man was mounting his horse at the front porch. For a moment he thought it must be Cultus, but as the man climbed drunkenly into the saddle, the sheriff realised that it was Mac Rawls, who to all intents and purposes should be a case for the coroner.
Rawls caught his right stirrup, swaying low over the saddle-horn, and spurred away toward the road to Medicine Tree. For several moments Bad News stood there gaping at Rawls, expecting at any moment to see the wounded cowboy fall off the horse. But Mac Rawls didn’t fall. He was going faster all the time.
Then Bad News drew his six-shooter and fired six shots deliberately. They were all misses. Bad News knew they would be under those conditions and at that distance. Cultus was coming out through the kitchen doorway, half carrying Blaze.
Bad News galloped across the yard, yelling at Cultus, pointing with his gun at the disappearing Rawls.
“The son-of-a-gun got away?” he yelped. “Took my horse!”
“Help me put Blaze in the buggy,” said Cultus calmly. “Rawls probably won’t make it to town, anyway.”
They put Blaze in the buggy, where he leaned heavily against the seat.
“Could you drive that horse to town?” asked Cultus.
“Sure,” said Blaze weakly. “I’ll be all right now; give me the lines.”