“An’ there’s a bunch of ’em strung out among the bushes close to the edge of the mesa. Fifteen or twenty, would you think?”
“Must be that many, the way their bullets dropped round Tom an’ me just now.”
“Tom much hurt?”
“Flesh wound only—in the laig.”
Harshaw nodded. His mind was preoccupied with the problem before them. “The bulk of ’em are down in this gulch back of the ridge. We met ’em on the summit and drove ’em back. I judge they’ve had a-plenty. We’ll rout ’em out soon now.”
A brisk fire went on steadily between the Utes in the gulch and the whites on the ridge. Every man had found such cover as he could, but the numbers on both sides made it impossible for all to remain wholly hidden. The casualties among the troopers had been, however, very light since the first disastrous rush over the bluff.
Dud caught Harshaw’s arm. “Look!” he cried, keenly excited.
A man had emerged from the bushes and was running across the flat toward the ridge. Dud and Tom had kept well away toward the foothills, not out of range of the Utes, but far enough distant to offer poor targets. But this man was running the gauntlet of a heavy fire close enough to be an easy mark. Blanco valley settlers, expert marksmen from much big-game hunting, would have dropped the runner before he had covered thirty yards. But the Indians were armed with cheap trade guns and were at best poor shots. The runner kept coming.
Those on the ridge watched him, their pulses quick, their nerves taut. For he was running a race with death. Every instant they expected to see him fall. From the bushes jets of smoke puffed like toy balloons continuously.
“Fire where you see the smoke, boys,” Harshaw shouted.