Dud drew back promptly. He did not care to stand silhouetted against the sky-line for sharpshooters. Nobody had ever accused the Utes of being good shots, but at that distance they could hardly miss him if he stayed.
The soldiers and rangers gathered in a small clump of cottonwoods. Harshaw read his boys the riot act.
“Fine business,” he told them bitterly. “Every last one of you acted like he was a tenderfoot. Ain’t you ever seen a Ute before? Tryin’ to collect him so anxious, an’ him only bait to lead you on. I reckon we better go home an’ let Major Sheahan’s boys do this job. I’m plumb disgusted with you.”
The range-riders looked at each other out of the corners of meek eyes. This rebuke was due them. They had been warned against letting themselves be drawn on without orders.
“That fellow Houck he started it,” Big Bill suggested humbly by way of defense.
“Were you drug into it? Did he rope you off yore horse an’ take you along with him?” demanded Harshaw sarcastically. “Well, I hope you got yore lesson. How many did we lose?”
A roll-call showed four missing. Hollister felt a catch at the throat when his riding partner failed to report. Bob must be one of those who had gone over the ledge.
One of Sheahan’s troopers on scout duty reported. “Indians making for a gulch at the end of the willows, sir. Others swarming up into the bushes at the edge of the mesa.”
A cowpuncher familiar with the country volunteered information. “Gulch leads to that ridge over there. It’s the highest point around here.”
“Then we’d better take the ridge,” Harshaw suggested to Sheahan. “Right quick, too.”