“Was that when I heard shootin’ down there?” Dud asked.
“I reckon.”
“Well, I’ll be d-dawg-goned!” Blister exclaimed.
Of life’s little ironies he had never seen a stranger example than this. It had fallen to Bob Dillon to look after his bitter enemy, to risk his life for him, to traverse a battle-field under heavy fire in order to get help for him. His mind flashed back to the boy he had met less than a year ago, a pallid, trembling weakling who had shriveled under the acid test of danger. He had traveled a long way since then in self-conquest.
“Houck was down in the open last I seen him,” Hawks said. “Did he crawl to the willows?”
“I kinda helped him,” Bob said, a little ashamed.
“Hmp! An’ now you think we’d ought to let two-three men get shot going after him across the mesa,” Harshaw said. “Nothin’ doing. Not right away anyhow. Houck’s foolishness got him into the hole where he is. He’ll have to wait till we clean out this nest in the gulch. Soon as we’ve done that we’ll go after him.”
“But the Utes will rush the willows,” Bob protested mildly.
“Sorry, but he’ll have to take his chance of that. Any of the rest of us would in his place. You’ve done what you could, son. That lets you out.”
“No, I’m going back,” Bob said quietly. “I told him I would. I got to go.”