"Going to get water," explained Bob.

"Tha's a lie. You got water there--in that bottle. Think I don't know yore Apache ways?"

Bob crept to the edge of the willows. From the foliage he peered out.

Nobody was in sight. He could still see a faint smoke rising from the Indian camp. But the firing was a quarter of a mile away, at least. The bend of the river was between him and the combatants.

Bob took his courage by the throat, drew a long breath, and ran for the river. Just as he reached it a bullet splashed in the current almost within hand's reach. The cowpuncher stooped and took two hasty swallows into his dry mouth. He filled the bottle and soaked the bandanna in the cold water. A slug of lead spat at the sand close to his feet. A panic rose within him. He got up and turned to go. Another bullet struck a big rock four paces from where he was standing. Bob scudded for the willows, his heart thumping wildly with terror.

He plunged into the thicket, whipping himself with the bending saplings in his headlong flight. Now that they had discovered him, would the Indians follow him to his hiding-place? Or would they wait till dusk and creep up on him unseen? He wished he knew.

The water and the cool, wet bandanna alleviated the misery of the wounded man. He shut his eyes, muttering incoherently.

There was no longer any sound of firing. The long silence alarmed Bob.

Was it possible that his friends had been driven off? Or that they had retired from the field under the impression that all of the riders who had plunged over the bluff had been killed?

This fear obsessed him. It rode him like an old man of the sea. He could not wait here till the Utes came to murder him and Houck. Down in the bottom of his heart he knew that he could not leave this enemy of his to the fate that would befall him. The only thing to do was to go for help at once.

He took off his coat and put it under Houck's head. He moistened the hot bandanna for the burning forehead and poured the rest of the water down the throat of the sick man. The rifle he left with Houck. It would only impede him while he was crossing the mesa.

None of us know what we can do till the test comes. Bob felt it was physically impossible for him to venture into the open again and try to reach his friends. He might at any instant run plumb into the Utes.

Nevertheless he crept out from the willows into the sage desert.

The popping of the guns had begun again. The battle seemed to be close to the edge of the mesa round the bend of the river. Bob swung wide, climbing the bluff from the farther skirt of the willows. He reached the mesa.

From where he lay he could see that the whites held a ridge two hundred yards away. The Utes were apparently in the river valley.

He moved forward warily, every sense abnormally keyed to service. A clump of wild blackberries grew on the rim of the bluff. From this smoke billowed. Bullets began to zip past Bob. He legged it for the ridge, blind to everything but his desperate need to escape.

CHAPTER XXXIII

"KEEP A-COMIN', RED HAID"

When the rangers and the militia stampeded after the Indian scout, Dud Hollister was examining the hoof of his mount. He swung instantly to the saddle and touched his pony with the spur. It shot across the mesa on the outskirts of the troop. Not impeded by riders in front, Dud reached the bluff above the river valley on the heels of the advance guard. He pulled up just in time to keep from plunging over.

The Utes, under cover of the willow saplings, were concentrating a very heavy fire on the bluff and slope below. Dud's first thought was that the troops had been drawn into a trap. Every man who had been carried over the edge of the mesa by the impetus of the charge was already unhorsed.

Several were apparently dead. One was scudding for cover.

Dud drew back promptly. He did not care to stand silhouetted against the sky-line for sharpshooters. Nobody had ever accused the Utes of being good shots, but at that distance they could hardly miss him if he stayed.

The soldiers and rangers gathered in a small clump of cottonwoods.

Harshaw read his boys the riot act.

"Fine business," he told them bitterly. "Every last one of you acted like he was a tenderfoot. Ain't you ever seen a Ute before? Tryin' to collect him so anxious, an' him only bait to lead you on. I reckon we better go home an' let Major Sheahan's boys do this job. I'm plumb disgusted with you."

The range-riders looked at each other out of the corners of meek eyes.

This rebuke was due them. They had been warned against letting themselves be drawn on without orders.

"That fellow Houck he started it," Big Bill suggested humbly by way of defense.

"Were you drug into it? Did he rope you off yore horse an' take you along with him?" demanded Harshaw sarcastically. "Well, I hope you got yore lesson. How many did we lose?"

A roll-call showed four missing. Hollister felt a catch at the throat when his riding partner failed to report. Bob must be one of those who had gone over the ledge.

One of Sheahan's troopers on scout duty reported. "Indians making for a gulch at the end of the willows, sir. Others swarming up into the bushes at the edge of the mesa."

A cowpuncher familiar with the country volunteered information. "Gulch leads to that ridge over there. It's the highest point around here."

"Then we'd better take the ridge," Harshaw suggested to Sheahan. "Right quick, too."

The major agreed.

They put the troop in motion. Another scout rode in. The Utes were hurrying as fast as they could to the rock-rim. Major Sheahan quickened the pace to a gallop. The Indians lying in the bushes fired at them as they went.

Tom Reeves went down, his horse shot under him. Dud pulled up, a hundred yards away. Out of the bushes braves poured like buzzing bees. The dismounted man would be cut off.

Hollister wheeled his cowpony in its tracks and went back. He slipped a foot from the stirrup and held it out as a foot-rest for Reeves. The Utes whooped as they came on. The firing was very heavy. The pony, a young one, danced wildly and made it impossible for Tom to swing up.

Dud dismounted. The panicky horse backed away, eyes filled with terror.

It rose into the air, trembling. Dud tried to coax it to good behavior.

The moments were flying, bringing the Utes nearer every instant.

"We gotta make a run for it, Dud," his companion said hurriedly. "To the willows over there."

There was no choice. Hollister let go the bridle and ran. Scarcely fifty yards behind them came the Utes.

Even in their high-heeled boots the cowpunchers ran fast. Once within the shelter of the willows they turned and opened fire. This quite altered the situation. The foremost brave faltered in his pigeon-toed stride, stopped abruptly, and dived for the shelter of a sagebush. The others veered off to the right. They disappeared into some blackberry bushes on the edge of the mesa. Whether from here they continued to the valley the punchers in the willows could not tell.

"Some lucky getaway," Dud panted.

"Thought I was a goner sure when they plugged my bronc," said Reeves.

He took a careful shot at the sagebush behind which the Indian had taken refuge. The Ute ran away limping.

"Anyhow, that guy's got a souvenir to remember me by. Compliments of Tom Reeves," grinned the owner of that name.

"We've got to get back to the boys somehow. I reckon they're havin' quite a party on the ridge," Dud said.

The sound of brisk firing came across the mesa to them. It was evident that the whites and redskins had met on the ridge and were disputing for possession of it.

"My notion is we'd better stick around here for a while," Reeves demurred. "I kinda hate to hoof it acrost the flat an' be a target the whole darned way."

This seemed good to Hollister. The troopers seemed to be holding their own. They had not been driven back. The smoke of their rifles showed along the very summit of the rock-rim. The inference was that the Utes had been forced to fall back.