“I ain’t sayin’ who.” He shouted to make his voice heard above the crackle of the bellowing red demon that had been set loose. Already he spoke hoarsely from a throat roughened by smoke.
“Where’s Dad?” she called back.
“Don’t know. Ain’t seen him since I left the house.” Dusty gave information. “Saw him runnin’ toward the creek awhile ago.”
Almost instantly Betty knew why. He, too, must have guessed that this fire had come from no chance spark, but of set design. No doubt he was trying to head off the incendiary.
“Just which way?” she asked the cowpuncher.
Dusty jerked a thumb to the left. The girl turned and moved swiftly in the direction of the fringe of bushes that rose as a vague line out of the darkness. She believed her father’s instinct was true. Whoever had fired the stacks would retreat to the willows and make his escape along the creek bed, hiding in the bushes if the pursuit grew close.
Before she had taken a dozen steps a sound leaped into the night. It was a revolver shot. Fear choked her. She began to run, her heart throbbing like that of a half-grown wild rabbit in the hand. Faint futile little cries broke from her throat. A sure intuition told her what she would find by the creek.
Her father lay on a sand spit close to the willows. He was dragging himself toward the cover of some brush. From the heavy foliage a shot rang out.
Betty flew across the open to her father.
“Look out!” he called sharply to her. “He’s in the willows. Down here.” Reed caught at her arm and pulled her behind him where he lay crouched.