"Ho, boy, it's Doc Crombie, an' a whole gang. An' dey see us, too, sure. But dey never catch us!"

Spurs went into their horses' flanks and the race began. For the noose of the rope was looming large and ominous before their terrified eyes.

A quarter of a mile from the hollow they divided and went their ways in three different directions.

CHAPTER XXVI

ON THE LITTLE BLUFF RIVER

Away to the west, where the plains cease and the hills begin, where the Little Bluff River debouches upon the plains from its secret path through canon and creva.s.se, Jim Thorpe was standing beside a low scrub bush, gazing ruefully at his distressed horse. The poor brute was too tired to move from where he stood, nipping at the rich prairie gra.s.s about his feet. He still had the strength and necessary appet.i.te to do this, but that was about all.

In his anxiety to serve the woman he loved Jim had done what years ago he had vowed never to do. He had ridden his willing servant to a standstill.

The saddle had been removed for more than an hour and was lying beside the bush, and the man, all impatience and anxiety, was considering his position and the possibility of fulfilling his mission. The outlook was pretty hopeless. He judged that he had at least ten miles to go, with no other means of making the distance than his own two legs.

And then, what would be the use? Doc Crombie was probably on the road.

He had heard the men preparing for the start before he left the village. True, they had not overtaken him, but that was nothing. There were other ways of reaching the rustlers' hollow. He knew of at least three trails, and the difference in the distance between them was infinitesimal.

For all he knew the other men might have already reached their destination. Yes, they probably had. He had been out of the saddle more than an hour. It was rotten luck. What would Eve think? He had failed her in her extremity. At least his horse had. And it was much the same thing. He realized now the folly of his attempt on a tired horse. But then there had been no time to get a fresh one. No possibility of getting one without rousing suspicion. Truly his luck was devilish.

He sat down, his back propped against the stump of a dead sapling. And from beneath the wide brim of his hat, pressed low down upon his forehead, he gazed steadily out over the greensward at the southern sky-line. His face was moody. His feelings were depressed. What could he do? In profound thought he sat clasping one knee, which was drawn up almost to his chin.

The beauty and peace of the morning had no part in his thoughts just now. Bitter and depressed feelings alone occupied him. Behind him the noisy little river sped upon its tumultuous way, just below sharp, high banks, and entirely screened from where he sat. There was a gossipy, companionable suggestion in the bustling of the noisy waters.

But the feeling was lost upon him. He prayed for inspiration, for help. It was not for himself. It was for a woman. And the bitterness of it all was that he, he with all his longing, was denied the power to help her.

He turned from the hills with a feeling of irritation. Away to his left the prairie rolled upward, a steady rise to a false sky-line something less than a mile away. There was sign of neither man, nor beast, nor habitation of any sort in the prospect. There was just the river bank on which he sat to break up the uniformity of the plain.

Here was bush, here were trees, but they were few and scattered.

Presently he rose from his seat and moved over to his horse. The animal lifted its head and looked wistfully into his face. The man interpreted the appeal in his own fashion. And the look hurt him. It was as if the poor beast were asking to be allowed to go on feeding a little longer. Jim was soft-hearted for all dumb animals, and he quietly and softly swore at his luck. However, he resaddled the animal to protect its back from the sun and turned back again to the bush.

But he never reached his seat. At that instant the quiet was suddenly and harshly broken. The stillness of the plain seemed literally split with the crack of firearms. Two shots rang out in rapid succession, and the faintest of echoes from the distant hills suggested an opposing fire at long range. But the first two shots were near, startlingly near.

All was still again. The man stood staring out in the direction whence came those ominous sounds. No, all was not quite still again. His quick ears detected a faint pounding of hoofs, and a racing thought flew through his brain. His movements became swift, yet deliberate. He crossed over to his horse and replaced the bit in its mouth. Then he faced round at the rising ground and watched the sky-line. It was thence that the reports had come, and his practiced ears had warned him that they were pistol shots.

Now he shaded his eyes gazing at one particular spot on the sky-line.

For his horse, too, was gazing thither, with its ears sharply p.r.i.c.ked.

And, in consequence, he knew that the man, or men who had fired those shots were there, beyond the rise.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Also he was gripping a heavy revolver in his hand.]

He waited. Suddenly a moving speck broke the sky-line. Momentarily it grew larger. Now it was sufficiently silhouetted for him to recognize it. A horseman was coming toward him, racing as hard as spurs could drive the beast under him.

Just for a moment he wondered. Then he glanced swiftly round at the river behind him. Yes, the river. This man was riding from the hills.

And he understood in a flash. He was pursued. The hounds had him out in the open. The only shelter for miles around was the spa.r.s.e bush at the riverside, and--the river itself. His interest became excitement, and a sudden wild hope. He now searched the horizon behind the man.

There was not a soul in sight--and yet--those two shots.

But the situation suddenly became critical for himself. He realized that the fugitive had seen him. From a low bending att.i.tude over his horse's neck the man had suddenly sat erect. Also he was gripping a heavy revolver in his hand.

Suddenly a further excitement stirred the waiting man. As the fugitive sat up he recognized him. It was Will Henderson.

He was still a hundred yards away, but the distance was rapidly narrowing. At fifty yards he, Jim, would be well within range, and the memory of those two shots warned him that the revolver in the horseman's hand was no sort of bluff. It meant business, sure enough, and his own ident.i.ty was not in the least likely to add to his safety.

He must convey his peaceful intentions at once.

It was difficult. He dared not shout. He knew how the voice traveled over the plains. Suddenly he remembered. He was one of the few prairie men who still clung to the white handkerchief of civilization. He drew one out of his pocket. It was anything but clean, but it would serve.

Throwing up both arms he waved it furiously at the man. This he did three times. Then, dropping it to the ground, he held up both hands in the manner of a prairie surrender.

There was a moment of anxious waiting, then, to his relief, he saw Will head his hard blowing horse in his direction. But still retaining his hold of his pistol, he came on. And in those few moments before he reached him Jim had an opportunity of close observation.

First he saw that the horse was nearly done. Evidently the chase had been, if short, at least a hard one, and if the hunters were close behind, there was little enough chance of escape for him. The man's eyes were alight and staring with the suspicious look of the hunted.

His young mouth was set desperately, and the watching man read in his face a determination to sell his life at the highest price he could demand. And somehow, in spite of all that had gone, he felt a great pity for him.

Then, in a moment, his pity fled. It was the color of the man's shirt that first caught his attention. It was identical with his own. From this he examined the rest of his clothing. Will Henderson was clad as much like himself as possible. And the meaning of it was quite plain to him.

The horseman came up. He flung himself back in the saddle and reined his horse up with a jerk.

"What's your game?" he demanded fiercely, still gripping the threatening revolver, as Jim dropped his hands.

"I came to warn you--but my horse foundered. See."

Jim pointed at the dejected beast. "I came because she asked me to come," he added.

Will glanced back up the hill. It needed little enough imagination to guess what he was looking for.

"Well, the game's up, and--I'm hunted. They're about three miles behind--all except one." He laughed harshly. Then he caught Jim's eyes. "You came because she sent you? That means you're goin' to help me, I guess, but only--because she sent you. Are you goin' to?" He edged his gun forward so that the other could not miss seeing it.

But Jim had no fear. He was thinking with all the power of his brain.

Time was everything. He doubted they had more than five minutes. He knew this patch of country by heart, which was one of the reasons he had taken the northern trail. Now his knowledge served him.

He answered instantly, utterly ignoring the threatening gun.

"Yes. Now get this quickly. Your only chance is to drop down into that river. It's shallow, though swift--about two feet to possibly two and a half. Ride down stream for two miles. It winds tremendously, so the others won't see you. You'll come to a thick patch of woods on either bank. Take the left bank, and make through the woods, north. Then keep right on to some foot-hills about ten miles due north. Once there you can dodge 'em, sure. Anyway it's up to you. Leave 'em to me, when they come up. I'll do my best to put 'em off."

Jim's voice was cold enough, but he spoke rapidly. Will, who had turned again to scan the sky-line, now looked down at him suspiciously.

"Is this bluff--or straight business?" he demanded harshly.

Jim shrugged.

"You best get on--if you're going to clear. You said they were three miles off," he reminded him, in the same cold manner.

Will looked back. He was still doubtful, but--he realized he must take the advice. He had delayed too long now for anything else.

"She sent you, eh?" he asked, sharply. "It's not your own doin'?"

"I've no sympathy with--cattle-thieves," Jim retorted. "Git, quick!"