Clattering Hoofs. William MacLeod Raine

him from the average drifting cowboy.

      Moving to the top of a loma, Sloan caught sight of windmill blades flashing in the sun. McNulty made it a point to ride close to him.

      “Blunt’s,” he explained, pointing to the windmill, his mean eyes exulting. “It’s cross-bars will be better than a wagon tongue.”

      Sloan did not answer. He did not want to give him the satisfaction of a reply. Uhlmann, he noticed, did not appear to be guarding him closely. This was an invitation for him to attempt escape. He knew that if he tried it the German would shoot him down before he had covered forty yards. This was a hopeful sign. The fellow would not be tempting him to make a break for liberty if he was quite sure the conference at Blunt’s would vote for an immediate hanging without waiting for his story to be verified or disproved.

      The voice of Hart rang out. “Look!” he cried.

      Out of an arroyo a rider appeared. He was flogging his mount with a quirt. They could see that he was swaying in the saddle. With one hand he clung to the horn.

      “It’s Bill Hays,” McNulty announced. “What’s the matter with him?”

      The man headed straight for them. They could hear him shouting, but could not make out what he was saying. He skirted the edge of the herd and pulled up not a yard from Sloan. Uhlmann caught him as he slid from the saddle.

      “Pablo Lopez’ raiders,” he gasped just before sinking into unconsciousness.

      There was a stain of blood on the front of his shirt still wet and soggy.

      “By Moses, here they come!” McNulty shouted. “I’m lighting outa here.”

      “No,’ Ranger snapped. “They’ll get you sure. We’ll move back into the wash we just crossed. They may take the stock and not attack us.”

      McNulty was close to panic. His frightened eyes clung to the dozen riders charging toward them. Bullets whistled past him.

      “They’ll murder us,” he yelped.

      Uhlmann pushed into his hand a rifle and the reins of the horse he had been riding.

      “Git a-holt of yoreself, fellow,” he snarled. “This is a fight you’re in.” The German stooped and picked up Hays, then strode toward the wash.

      McNulty reached there long before any of the others. He was in a panic of terror. In his haste he had dropped the rifle of the German and released his horse. Back of the two-foot bank he lay trembling. The reputation of Pablo Lopez was well-known. On raids across the line from Mexico his bandits killed gringos right and left.

      Hart and Ranger stayed to protect Uhlmann by covering his retreat. Their Winchesters flung back an answer to the shots of the outlaws. All of them came safely to the bed of the dry stream.

      Uhlmann put the wounded man in the sand and turned to McNulty. “Where’s my rifle?” he demanded.

      “I . . . slipped . . . and it dropped,” the poor wretch quavered.

      The German caught him by the coat collar and dragged him to his knees. His hard horny hand slapped the colorless face.

      “Fight, damn you, or I’ll put a bullet through your belly now,” he said savagely.

      The big man did not wait for an answer. He went lumbering back through the brush to get the rifle. Bullets whipped past him, but he paid no attention to them. The Mexicans were riding fast and could fire with no accuracy. A few seconds later he was back in the wash with his weapon.

      “What’s become of the rustler?” he asked.

      “I saw him fork Bill Hays’ horse,” Hart said. “Thought he was bringing it here.”

      “He must either have lit out or got shot,” Ranger guessed.

      “Cut his stick? That’s what he’s done. Bill’s bronc is faster than his.” There was shrill complaint in the high voice of McNulty. “Left us here to be killed while he slips away. I knew we’d ought to have hanged him right away.”

      “We’re not going to be killed.” Ranger’s voice was cool and resolute. “We’re going to get a few of these murderous devils. They never could shoot straight.”

      The sound of Ranger’s rifle echoed back and forth between the banks of the wash loud as the roar of a cannon. One of the Mexicans pitched headlong from his horse. Those behind him pulled up hurriedly and broke for cover to right and left.

      “Good work, John,” encouraged Hart. “Number one rubbed out. We’ll be all right yet. They’ll hear the firing at Blunt’s and some of the boys will come moseying this way to help us.” He caught a glimpse of a head peering above a hummock and blazed away at it.

      4. Sloan Interrupts

      THE INTERVENTION OF LOPEZ’ RAIDERS CAME TO CAPE Sloan as a chance for escape to be seized at once. A man hard and resolute, under other circumstances he would have stayed with the cattlemen to help stand off the attack of the bandits. But he saw no percentage in remaining, since if he survived the battle there would still be the likelihood of being hanged later.

      He swung to the saddle from which the wounded man had fallen and made off at a right angle through the brush. His captors were too busy looking after their own safety to pay any attention to him. Though he put the horse to a gallop, he rode crouched, his body close to the back of his mount, in the hope of using the mesquite as a screen between him and the outlaws. It was a comfort to see Hays’ rifle close at hand in the scabbard beside his leg.

      Life on the frontier, lived recklessly, had made of Sloan a hard-bitten realist. If possible, he meant to make a clean getaway. First, he had to avoid being shot down by the raiders, and afterward to make a wide detour of the Blunt ranch in order not to be stopped by any of those hunting the Scarface depredators. In spite of his keen watchfulness against the immediate danger, he felt a sardonic amusement at the development of the situation. The foray of one band of rustlers had imperiled him; that of a much more malignant one had brought him rescue.

      A stranger to the chaparral would have found difficulty in picking a way through the dense growth, but Sloan wound in and out without once pulling to a walk the cowpony he was astride. The yucca struck at his legs with points of steel. Strong spines of the cholla and the prickly pear seemed to be clutching for him. But he was so expert a brush rider that he could miss the needles by a hair’s breadth without slackening his pace.

      Back of him he heard the firing of the guns drumming defiance. They told him that the first charge had been broken and that for the time at least the battle had settled down to a siege. Later Lopez’ men would probably get tired of that and try another attack in force unless a rescue party from the ranch interfered with them.

      The noise of the explosions sounded fainter as the distance between him and the wash increased. He had been traveling back into a hill country, but after a time he pulled up to decide on a course. By now he must be well south of the Blunt place and could swing around it if he kept to the brush. There was no longer any danger of pursuit by the Mexicans. Whether they had seen him at all he did not know. If so, they had let him go and concentrated on the men in the wash. He guessed that after finding that they could not rub out Ranger’s party without loss they might drive the cattle away, not stopping to exterminate the owners. Sloan had heard that though Lopez was ruthless he liked to run as little risk as possible.

      There was no longer any need of haste. The young man moved down into the flats, holding the buckskin to a walk. Technically he had become a horse thief, but that did not seem important at the moment. When he did not need the animal any longer he could turn it loose and it would return to the home ranch. The rifle he would keep, at least until he had reached a place of safety.

      The sun had slid down close to the jagged horizon line. Inside of two hours darkness would sift down over the land. After that he would be in little danger. During the night he could get forty miles away from here. His plan had been to stay, for reasons he did not yet want to make public.