“Thought I was a goner sure when they plugged my bronc,” said Reeves.
He took a careful shot at the sagebush behind which the Indian had taken refuge. The Ute ran away limping.
“Anyhow, that guy’s got a souvenir to remember me by. Compliments of Tom Reeves,” grinned the owner of that name.
“We’ve got to get back to the boys somehow. I reckon they’re havin’ quite a party on the ridge,” Dud said.
The sound of brisk firing came across the mesa to them. It was evident that the whites and redskins had met on the ridge and were disputing for possession of it.
“My notion is we’d better stick around here for a while,” Reeves demurred. “I kinda hate to hoof it acrost the flat an’ be a target the whole darned way.”
This seemed good to Hollister. The troopers seemed to be holding their own. They had not been driven back. The smoke of their rifles showed along the very summit of the rock-rim. The inference was that the Utes had been forced to fall back.
The two rangers lay in the willows for hours. The firing had died down, recommenced, and again ceased. Once there came the sound of shots from the right, down in the valley close by the river.
“They’re likely gettin’ the fellow that wasn’t killed when he went over the bluff,” Dud suggested. “There ain’t a thing we can do to help him either.”
“That’s it, I reckon. They’re collectin’ him now. Wonder which of the boys it is.”