Part 35 (1/2)

But the four strangers had taken advantage of the incident to turn and plunge back into the coulee. They were almost out of sight. Casey's gun spat a continuous jet of flame across the night, the rapid reports blending into a roll of sound. McHale, cursing his unsteady horse, fired again and again. But the strangers, apparently unhurt, swept out of sight.

Casey leaped to the ground, secured his rifle, and was back in the saddle again in an instant. They sailed into the shallow head of the coulee at a dead run, Casey struggling to refill the clip of his automatic, McHale cursing his horse and himself because he had used the rifle instead of his six-shooter.

At its head the coulee was merely a slight depression. Farther on it broadened and deepened. Down the middle of its length ran a sinuous grove of cottonwoods. On either side its flanks were bare, white with clay and alkali, rising to steep banks of yellow earth, bald and bleached in the moonlight.

Through this natural theatre thundered pursuers and pursued. The latter had secured a good lead. The windings of the coulee hid them from view.

Suddenly Casey became aware that there was no one ahead--that he and McHale were riding madly, to no purpose. At the same moment the latter made the like discovery. Their horses' hoofs slid and cut grooves in the earth as the riders dragged them to a halt. Usually considerate, in the excitement of the moment they used the brutal methods of the ”buster.”

”They've doubled back on us!” cried McHale. ”Cut through them cottonwoods somewheres and let us go by a-h.e.l.lin'. Fooled us, by glory, like we was a pair of hide-an'-go-seek kids. Yes--there they go now!

Look up by the top past that cut bank!” He lifted his rifle as he spoke.

High up at the coulee's rim, some hundreds of yards away, figures moved. At that distance, even in the brilliant moonlight, details were lost. The eye could discern black spots merely; but it seemed that the men had dismounted for the ascent, and were helping the horses to scramble upward.

McHale fired, shoved down the lever, drew it home, and fired again.

Since the light did not serve to show the dust puffs of the bullets, he could not tell whether he was shooting high or low. The main thing was that he did not hit. Casey chimed in. The bluffs and banks echoed to the reports of the high-powered rifles; but the figures gained the rim and vanished. Immediately afterward a tongue of flame leaped from the spot where they were last seen, and a bullet sang in close proximity to Casey's head. They wheeled into the shelter of the trees, where the shadows effectually concealed their whereabout. At short intervals bullets searched for their position. McHale bit large consolation and spat in disgust.

”I reckon it's a get-away,” he said. ”I ain't fool enough to go up that bank while they're there. And by the time we'd get around they'd be a couple of miles 'most anywheres.”

”We've got ourselves to blame,” said Casey.

”Well, that first shot burned up this cayuse of mine,” McHale grumbled.

”How could I shoot, with him jumpin' around? And that blasted, yeller-hided buzzard head of yours, he don't know no better'n to whale into him with both heels. It wouldn't happen again, not in a million years.”

”It doesn't need to,” said Casey sourly. ”We found our meat, and we couldn't stop it.”

”The laugh is on us,” McHale admitted. ”For the powder we burned we sure ought to have a scalp or two to show. Still, moonlight shootin' is chance shootin', and when a cussed mean cayuse is sashayin' round if a man hits anything but scenery he's lucky!”

”I thought that old-timer, Dade, was doing the talking.”

”Sure he was. And I'll bet it was his _tillik.u.m_, Cross, that took the first crack at us. Didn't waste no time. He's some soon, that feller. I s'pose they got a camp, somewheres. No use tryin' to find it. We can't prove that they used the powder on our dams. Well, what say if we point out for home? Daylight's breakin' now.”

A pale light was spreading in the east, underneath the stars that rimmed the horizon. Objects became more visible. As they rode unmolested from the coulee the pale light began to flush faintly. Rosy shafts shot upward, and the stars vanished. Here and there birds began to twitter. An old grouse scuttled away, wings a-trail, as if mortally hurt, to distract attention from her young brood hidden in the short gra.s.s. A huge owl sailed ghostlike on silent wings, homeward bound from midnight foray. A coyote yipped shrill protest against the day. Away to the west, where the mountains loomed grandly, bright lights lay on peaks still white with the remnants of winter snows. Suddenly, driving the shadows before it, the sun seemed to leap above the rim of the world.

CHAPTER XX

During the next twelve hours there was much riding from ranch to ranch.

Of all the small dams constructed and maintained by the ranchers for irrigation purposes but one remained; and that one was Donald McCrae's.

McCrae himself considered this an invidious distinction. He would have preferred to suffer with his neighbours. He did not know why his structure had been spared, and he lent men and teams to others, labouring hard himself in the task of rebuilding.

The temper of the ranchers was at the breaking point. Naturally the blame fell on Farwell; he was the villain of the piece. He had expected unpopularity, but he had no idea of the depth of it. The black looks he met did not disturb him in the least; nor, to do him justice, would he have been seriously alarmed if he had known that more than one man was quite ready to pick a deadly quarrel with him. For some time he had not seen Sheila McCrae, but he found himself thinking of her constantly.

And so, one evening he rode over to Talapus.

Somewhat to his relief, neither McCrae nor Sandy was visible. Mrs.

McCrae was calmly civil. Her manner gave no hint that he was unwelcome.