The rangers and militia concentrated on the fringe of shrubbery. At least they could make it hot enough for the Indians to disturb their aims.
“He’s down!” groaned Hollister.
He was, but in a second he was up once more, still running strong. He had stumbled over a root. The sage was heavy here. This served as a partial screen for the swiftly moving man. Every step now was carrying him farther from the sharpshooters, bringing him closer to the ridge.
“By Godfrey, he’ll make it!” Harshaw cried.
It began to look that way. The bullets were still falling all around him, but he was close to the foot of the ridge.
Dud made a discovery. “It’s Bob Dillon!” he shouted. Then, to the runner, with all his voice, “Keep a-comin’, Red Haid!”
The hat had gone from the red head. As he climbed the slope the runner was laboring heavily. Dud ran down the hill to meet him, half a dozen others at his heels, among them Blister. They caught the spent youth under the arms and round the body. So he reached the crest.
Blister’s fat arms supported him as his body swayed. The wheezy voice of the justice trembled. “G-glory be, son. I ’most had heart f-failure whilst you was hoofin’ it over the mesa. Oh, boy! I’m g-glad to see you.”
Bob sat down and panted for breath. “I got to go—back again,” he whispered from a dry throat.
“What’s that?” demanded Harshaw. “Back where?”