The two rangers lay in the willows for hours. The firing had died down, recommenced, and again ceased. Once there came the sound of shots from the right, down in the valley close by the river.

"They're likely gettin' the fellow that wasn't killed when he went over the bluff," Dud suggested. "There ain't a thing we can do to help him either."

"That's it, I reckon. They're collectin' him now. Wonder which of the boys it is."

Dud felt a twinge of conscience. There was nothing he could do to help the man hemmed in on the riverbank, but it hurt him to lie there without attempting aid. The ranger making the lone fight might be Bob Dillon, poor Bob who had to whip his courage to keep himself from playing the weakling. Dud hoped not. He did not like to think of his riding mate in such desperate straits with no hope of escape.

The battle on the ridge had begun again. Hollister and Reeves decided to try to rejoin their friends. From the north end of the willows they crept into a small draw that led away from the river toward the hills beyond the mesa. Both of them were experienced plainsmen. They knew how to make the most of such cover as there was. As they moved through the sage, behind hillocks and along washes, they detoured to put as much distance as possible between them and the Utes at the edge of the bench.

But the last hundred yards had to be taken in the open. They did it under fire, on the run, with a dozen riflemen aiming at them from the fringe of blackberry bushes that bordered the mesa. Up the ridge they went pell-mell, Reeves limping the last fifty feet of the way. An almost spent bullet had struck him in the fleshy part of the lower leg.

Hawks let out a cowboy yell at sight of them, jumped up, and pulled Dud down beside him among the boulders.

"Never expected to see you lads again alive an' kickin' after you an' the Utes started that footrace. I'll bet neither one of you throwed down on yoreself when you was headin' for the willows. Gee, I'm plumb glad to see you."

"We're right glad to be here, Buck," acknowledged Dud. "What's new?"

"We got these birds goin', looks like. In about an hour now we're allowin' to hop down into the gulch real sudden an' give 'em merry hell."

Dud reported to Harshaw. The cattleman dropped a hand on his rider's shoulder with a touch of affection. He was very fond of the gay young fellow.

"Thought they'd bumped you off, boy. Heap much glad to see you. What do you know?"

"I reckon nothing that you don't. There was firin' down by the river.

Looks like they found one o' the boys who went over the bluff."

"An' there's a bunch of 'em strung out among the bushes close to the edge of the mesa. Fifteen or twenty, would you think?"

"Must be that many, the way their bullets dropped round Tom an' me just now."

"Tom much hurt?"

"Flesh wound only--in the laig."

Harshaw nodded. His mind was preoccupied with the problem before them.

"The bulk of 'em are down in this gulch back of the ridge. We met 'em on the summit and drove 'em back. I judge they've had a-plenty. We'll rout 'em out soon now."

A brisk fire went on steadily between the Utes in the gulch and the whites on the ridge. Every man had found such cover as he could, but the numbers on both sides made it impossible for all to remain wholly hidden.

The casualties among the troopers had been, however, very light since the first disastrous rush over the bluff.

Dud caught Harshaw's arm. "Look!" he cried, keenly excited.

A man had emerged from the bushes and was running across the flat toward the ridge. Dud and Tom had kept well away toward the foothills, not out of range of the Utes, but far enough distant to offer poor targets. But this man was running the gauntlet of a heavy fire close enough to be an easy mark. Blanco valley settlers, expert marksmen from much big-game hunting, would have dropped the runner before he had covered thirty yards. But the Indians were armed with cheap trade guns and were at best poor shots. The runner kept coming.

Those on the ridge watched him, their pulses quick, their nerves taut.

For he was running a race with death. Every instant they expected to see him fall. From the bushes jets of smoke puffed like toy balloons continuously.

"Fire where you see the smoke, boys," Harshaw shouted.

The rangers and militia concentrated on the fringe of shrubbery. At least they could make it hot enough for the Indians to disturb their aims.

"He's down!" groaned Hollister.

He was, but in a second he was up once more, still running strong. He had stumbled over a root. The sage was heavy here. This served as a partial screen for the swiftly moving man. Every step now was carrying him farther from the sharpshooters, bringing him closer to the ridge.

"By Godfrey, he'll make it!" Harshaw cried.

It began to look that way. The bullets were still falling all around him, but he was close to the foot of the ridge.

Dud made a discovery. "It's Bob Dillon!" he shouted. Then, to the runner, with all his voice, "Keep a-comin', Red Haid!"

The hat had gone from the red head. As he climbed the slope the runner was laboring heavily. Dud ran down the hill to meet him, half a dozen others at his heels, among them Blister. They caught the spent youth under the arms and round the body. So he reached the crest.

Blister's fat arms supported him as his body swayed. The wheezy voice of the justice trembled. "G-glory be, son. I 'most had heart f-failure whilst you was hoofin' it over the mesa. Oh, boy! I'm g-glad to see you."

Bob sat down and panted for breath. "I got to go--back again," he whispered from a dry throat.

"What's that?" demanded Harshaw. "Back where?"

"To--to the river. I came to get help--for Houck."

"Houck?"

"He's down there in the willows wounded."

CHAPTER XXXIV

AN OBSTINATE MAN STANDS PAT

A moment of blank silence fell on the little group crouched among the boulders. Bob's statement that he had to go back through the fire zone--to Houck--had fallen among them like a mental bombshell.

Blister was the first to find his voice. "You been down there l-lookin'

after him?"

"Yes. They hit him in the leg--twice. An' once in the side. He's outa his head. I got him water from the river."

"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.