The automatic of the man in ambush barked again. A spatter of sand stung Betty’s face. Almost simultaneously came the bull roar of the foreman’s hoarse voice.
“You’re shot, Daddy,” the girl whimpered.
“Keep still!” he ordered.
A heavy body crashed through the bushes in flight. At the same time came the thump of running feet. Dusty broke into sight, followed by the foreman.
The wounded rancher took command. “He went that way, boys,” he said, and pointed down the creek. “Lit out a minute ago. Hustle back to the house and get guns, then cut down the road in the car and head him off.”
Forbes nodded to Dusty. “You do that. Take the boys with you. Hit the creek at the ford and work up.” He turned to his employer. “How about it, Clint? Where’d he hit you? How bad?”
“In the leg. It’ll wait. You get him, Lon.”
The foreman pushed into the willows and disappeared.
Reed called him back, but he paid no attention. The ranchman fumed. “What’s the matter with the dawg-goned old idiot? No sense a-tall. That’s no way to do. He’ll get shot first thing he knows.”
Her father was so much his usual self that Betty’s terror fell away from her. If he were wounded fatally, he would not act like this.