Not one of the bushwhackers came in sight. As far as they were concerned they never existed. Buck Priest had dropped flat on his back to escape the hail of lead. His leg was pinned beneath his dead horse, and it was impossible for him to extricate it. He could see the white face of Ken Mader in the moonlight, and he cursed Park Reber and his men.
He tried to draw his leg loose from beneath the horse, but the pain forced him to desist. He was sure the leg was broken. He swore bitterly, feeling sure that they had run into the rustler’s ambush.
Back in the hills, only a mile away from the road, were Park Reber and his men. They had heard the shooting, but the echoes were so confusing that none of them could tell where the shooting was taking place.
“Sounded like a battle all right,” declared Reber. “We’d better head for the road, I think. Unless I’m mistaken, that’s where the shooting came from.”
They traveled due east, striking the road a few hundred yards north of where the ambush had been laid. They did not see Leesom and Dow, who had gone past the spot, and were heading north. But they did find Dow’s hat in the road. It was a black Stetson, fairly new, but not marked with name or initial.
“Somebody goin’ plenty fast,” said one of the men. “That’s hat’s too good for a puncher to throw it away.”
“No way to tell which way he was goin’,” drawled a cowboy.
“We’ll go south and take a chance,” said Reber. And then they found Buck Priest, pinned down by his dead horse, and Ken Mader lying dead beside his dead horse. The men dismounted. Buck Priest recognized them and spat a curse at Park Reber.
“Got yuh, eh?” grunted Reber.
“Mader’s dead,” said one of the men.