Close to the far horse two men were struggling on the ground. As he looked, one rolled uppermost and, wrenching a hand loose, struck with a knife. A stifled cry came from the man underneath, and the sheriff ran forward at top speed.

A Mexican was straddling Moffatt, one hand about his throat. The outlaw was vainly endeavoring to break the grip with his fingers. The knife was raised for a second blow, when the native heard the crunch of the sheriff's boot and turned his head. His expression of raging hate changed to a look of such absolute amazement that it was almost ludicrous. Next instant he released Moffatt and scurried away like a cottontail, zigzagging among the trees as he headed for the Jug. It would have been an easy matter to bring him down, and for the fraction of a second Johnson was so inclined. Then: "Pshaw, I ain't looking for him," he said, and hurried to Moffatt's side.

"h.e.l.lo," said Steve weakly, opening his eyes.

"Are you hurt, Moffatt? Hurt bad?"

"Pretty bad, I reckon," said the injured man. "He done got me here."

He placed a hand over his right breast. There was a knife wound high up, which was bleeding generously, but not enough to cause alarm. Johnson unfastened the shirt and inspected the cut. It was deep, but the Mexican's thrust had been diverted and had gone high, toward the shoulder. Lafe did not think that the lung had been pierced or that there was internal hemorrhage. He removed the bandage from his ankle, found some water dripping from crevices in the cliff, bathed and bound the wound.

Said Moffatt: "Gee, I wish I had a drink."

Johnson caught some in his hat, and cooled his face when he had drunk.

The outlaw seemed grateful.

"You ain't got anything to eat, have you?" he inquired.

"I reckon you're feeling better? What'd you like? A steak with onions?"

Moffatt grinned, made a wry face and sat up painfully.

"Where did that fool Mexican go to?" he asked.

Lafe pointed to the Jug and opined that they would have to leave him there. The Jug was too formidable for a.s.sault, unless they had urgent need of him.

"Pshaw!" exclaimed Moffatt. "He ain't there now. I'll bet he's sneaked out the back way and is drifting right now. His gun went wrong, or it's like he'd have got me. No, sir, ol' Jiminez has beat it while the going was good, you can bet."

"Jiminez?" the sheriff repeated. "Pablo Jiminez?"

"His brother," answered Moffatt, and became sullen.

Johnson said nothing more just then. All was now explained. The Mexican had cut across country over unfrequented trails to intercept Moffatt at the Jug, as soon as he had learned of the killing of his brother. They had been companions on more than one ranch raid for horses, and he had guessed where Moffatt would seek refuge.

"Whose horse was shot first?" Lafe demanded, after an interval of silence, during which he gathered wood for a fire.

"Mine. Then I got his before he could shoot again. And when he done fell, he smashed his ol' gun. That was sure some luck."

"But why," Johnson said, much amazed, "why didn't you get him then? It ought to have been easy."

"No kattridges," said Moffatt briefly.

Shortly afterwards, night coming on, he proposed that Lafe go ahead into the Jug and make certain Jiminez was not there. If the place were empty, they could find shelter therein for the night; likewise flour and bacon and beans, and pots to cook them in. Save for weakness, part of which was the result of hunger, the outlaw did not appear greatly distressed from his wound, which had stopped bleeding.

Accordingly the sheriff approached the oval opening, exercising nice circ.u.mspection. It looked sufficiently peaceful. An acute, carefully developed instinct for danger told Johnson that none lurked there.

"Go on," Moffatt called after him. "He can't shoot, anyhow. No gun.

We'll take a chance."

"_We_ will? This is me. Not you," answered Johnson.

Then he cried in Mexican a friendly greeting, to be on the safe side in the event of Jiminez being in hiding, and strode into the Jug. The opening led into a high and deep cave. It was deserted. In front was a shallow open s.p.a.ce, and here were the ashes of fires and some empty bottles and old cans. In a remote corner of the cave, under some dirty sacks, were flour and bacon.

"Come on," he said, returning. "Let's go. It'll be dark in a minute."

Propping Moffatt with his shoulder, and an arm about his waist, Lafe reentered the Jug. There they spent the night.

Before the early coyotes had got into full swing in their morning songs, they were astir and made what breakfast they could. The sheriff was eager to be gone. Who could say at what moment a pair of desperadoes, with prior claims on the Jug, might not ride up the trail? In that event, he knew that Moffatt might be relied upon to act against him, and Johnson was feeling in no humor for further combat. His prisoner's shoulder was very stiff and caused him exquisite pain when he moved; also, he had a slight fever; but these things are borne as visitations of their profession by such men, and Moffatt never questioned the sheriff's demand that they start at once. He pursed his lips and whistled when the darting pains in his shoulder began, but went readily enough.

There was a slender ribbon of trail leading from the mouth of the Jug around the mountain peak and down the other side into a wide draw. By following it, said Moffatt, they could hit a road which ran south.

"It's eleven miles to it, though, and--wow--what a country. Say, Lafe, what're you going to do with me?"

"You're coming to Badger," replied the sheriff.

The outlaw gave him a sidelong look. "Oh, well," he said, "if you're set on it, all right."

When they had entered the draw after a terrible, sliding descent of the back trail--during which Lafe often bore his prisoner's entire weight--Moffatt spoke up again.

"Got any bread?" said he.

"You bet. Why?"

"Well, there's a big ol' mule we turned out here. I done found him last year down in Zacaton Bottom. He was like to of died, that mule. But I fixed him up good and packed some bedding and chuck on him way up here.

He's sure been useful, too. You keep your eye skinned and if you see him, just give him bread. Ridin's cheaper'n walkin'."

"It sure is. Let's go--easy--that's it."

The two had covered another mile of the draw, when, behind a tangle of mesquite, sounded a snort of suspicion.

"Good boy. Good ol' boy," said Johnson soothingly, advancing with the bread extended.

The mule jumped sidewise, hampered by a hobble. He sniffed and the sheriff followed, with endearing words and blandishments. Would he never stand still? It was a gaunt animal, with an especially large head.

Probably it smelled the delicacy so rarely enjoyed, because it came blowing at Lafe's hand. Whilst it munched on the crust, Johnson removed the hobble and tied the rope around its neck. Then, with a fervent prayer that the evil latent in every mule might be appeased, he hoisted Moffatt to his back and clambered up behind him. They headed out of the draw.

The sun was three hours high when they struck the road and paused at a wallow to give their mount a sip of water. Outside the draw he had obstinately refused to proceed faster than a walk and Lafe's sense of security was not sufficient to dispute the pace with him. As he lifted his ma.s.sive head from drinking, a pair of mules shoved their noses above a rise and a wagon came into view. A white man was driving. Johnson waved his hat and shouted a frantic greeting.

The stage was already descending and the driver could not stop it, although he laid himself back on the reins in the attempt. The sheriff regarded him in amazement. Was he gone crazy? When almost opposite, he let out a whoop and, running out on the pole, cut at the team with his whip. They went by at a gallop in a cloud of sand. Lafe caught a fleeting glimpse of the driver's white face and wavering eyes. Then their mount was seized of the devil; down went his head and he pitched as only a mule can. Moffatt went off at the first jump; at the third, Lafe scattered the waters of the wallow.

The opposite ascent was of soft sand, and before they reached the top, fatigue compelled the stage team to drop to a walk. The driver looked back, apprehension showing even in the bend of his neck. The gray mule had disappeared. Seeing Johnson on foot, helping Moffatt from the ground, the man threw on the brake and the stage came to a halt. The sheriff toiled painfully up the hill, holding the suffering outlaw around the waist.

"Here," said the driver in a dry voice. "Get in. Get in."

Together they lifted Steve in. The driver released the brakes and whipped his mules to a gallop.

"I swan. I swan," he kept repeating.

"Why the h.e.l.l didn't you stop? Hey? What do you mean by running by that way?" said the sheriff angrily.