"Was the Mississippi corked up in the dom cañon?"
Bob bore down upon the scene at the head of the Jackpot contingent. He gave a whoop at sight of the wrecked derrick and engine. "Kindlin' wood and junk," was his verdict. "Where's Dug and his gang?"
Dave relieved the half-drowned man of his revolver. "Here's one. The rest must be either in the arroyo or out in the draw."
"Scatter, boys, and find 'em. Look out for them if they're hurt. Collect their hardware first off."
The water by this time had subsided. Released from the walls of the arroyo, it had spread over the desert. The supply in the reservoir was probably exhausted, for the stream no longer poured down in a torrent. Instead, it came in jets, weakly and with spent energy.
Hart called. "Come here and meet an old friend, Dave."
Sanders made his way, ankle deep in water, to the spot from which that irrepressibly gay voice had come. He was still carrying the revolver he had taken from the Irishman.
"Meet Shorty, Dave. Don't mind his not risin' to shake. He's just been wrastlin' with a waterspout and he's some wore out."
The squat puncher glared at his tormentor. "I done bust my laig," he said at last sullenly.
He was wet to the skin. His lank, black hair fell in front of his tough, unshaven face. One hand nursed the lacerated leg. The other was hooked by the thumb into the band of his trousers.