Emerson Crawford was holding his ground, though barely holding it. He too was grimy, fire-blackened, exhausted, but he was still fighting to throw back the fire that swept down the cañon at him.
"How are things up above?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.
"Good. We held the check-line."
"Same here so far. It's been hell. Several of my boys fainted."
"I'll take charge awhile. You go and get some sleep," urged Sanders.
The cattleman shook his head. "No. See it through. Say, son, look who's here!" His thumb hitched toward his right shoulder.
Dave looked down the line of blackened, grimy fire-fighters and his eye fell on Shorty. He was still wearing chaps, but his Chihuahua hat had succumbed long ago. Manifestly the man had been on the fighting line for some hours.
"Doesn't he know about the reward?"
"Yes. He was hidin' in Malapi when the call came for men. Says he's no quitter, whatever else he is. You bet he ain't. He's worth two of most men at this work. Soon as we get through he'll be on the dodge again, I reckon, unless Applegate gets him first. He's a good sport, anyhow. I'll say that for him."
"I reckon I'm a bad citizen, sir, but I hope he makes his getaway before
Applegate shows up."