It was less than a mile to the bridge, and Badger was soon breasting the hill at a swinging canter. Just before reaching the summit Roderick descended, and throwing the bridle over the pony’s head tethered it in cowboy fashion. “I’ll be back in a minute, old fellow,” he said, as he gave Badger an affectionate pat on the neck. Then, rifle in hand, he walked up the remaining few yards of the slope, and cautiously peered over the crest into White Horse Canyon.
Great Scott! seven or eight horsemen away down at the foot of the descending incline were just scrambling out of the waste of cacti and joshuas on to the roadway! The first comers were waiting for the stragglers, and a pow-wow was evidently being held. Roderick gripped the butt of his rifle. But he heard the clatter of hoofs behind him, and drew back for the time being. Waving a cautioning hand to Buell Hampton and Grant as they approached, he gave the news in a few words. It took only a minute to tie all three horses securely to the low-growing grease-wood that here skirted the road—the animals, although well-trained, might be stampeded by the shooting. Then, rifles in hand, Roderick, Grant and the Major crept up to the crest of the ridge. Before reaching it the sharp tattoo of horse hoofs smote their ears.
“That’s Bud Bledsoe in the lead on the ginger pony,” exclaimed Buell Hampton.
Nothing more was needed by Roderick; if Bud Bledsoe was there, the gang were lawbreakers and bent on further villainy.
“Bang!” went Roderick’s rifle; and the ginger-colored horse plunged forward on his knees, and then rolled over, kicking wildly in the air. Two horses behind stumbled over the obstruction, and instantly there was a confused heap of struggling beasts and men. Four other riders had reined in their steeds just in time, and were standing stock-still on the highway.
“Keep it up, but don’t kill,” muttered the Major, just before he fired his own rifle. Almost at the same instant came “bang” from Grant’s shoulder, and a second shot by Roderick.
At this fusillade the four cowboys still mounted jumped their horses into the sage brush and cacti and were gone like a streak across country. One of the fallen horses had struggled to its feet, and a figure leaped into the saddle. It was Bud Bledsoe—Roderick knew him by his gorilla-like figure. Leaving his two fallen comrades to their fate, the leader raced after the fleeing quartette. Three rifle bullets whizzed past him to quicken his pace. Then the marksmen on the ridge stood erect.
Two motionless human figures lay on the road at the bottom of the hill; the ginger horse had rolled in among the bushes in his death throes, the other was limping along with a broken leg. Roderick ran down the slope on foot, leaving the others to follow with the horses.
The first man he reached was dead, his neck broken by the fall. Roderick recognized him at a glance—for when once riding the range with a bunch of cowboys they had passed a lone rider on a mountain trail and the name had been passed around—Butch Cassidy, a horse rustler, and an outlaw of the hills. The other fellow was bleeding from a wound in his breast; there was a gulping gurgle in his throat. He had evidently been hit by Grant’s first bullet, which had been fired too quick for any heed to be paid to Buell Hampton’s merciful injunction. Just as Roderick raised the limp hand the wounded man opened his eyes; then he uttered one great sob and died.
A few minutes later bullets from Grant’s revolver put the injured horses out of pain.