Clattering Hoofs. William MacLeod Raine

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      “He hit me with a gun,” the boy explained, the world still swimming before his eyes.

      The girl climbed into the buggy and put an arm around him. “Are you all right, Nels? I mean—are you much hurt, dear?”

      Her brother felt his head gently. “Gee, I’ll say I am.”

      Sloan examined the lump above the temple. It had been a fairly light tap. The skin was not broken and there was no blood. If there was no concussion Nelson had got off easily.

      “He’ll have a headache, but I don’t think he is much hurt,” Sloan decided.

      Cape had kept an eye on both of the prostrate bandits. Now he examined their wounds. The one he had shot was dead. His companion showed signs of life. Sloan stripped both of them of their weapons.

      “Where are the other men—the ones you called?” the girl asked.

      “There are no others.” Cape smiled. “Thought I’d encourage these scoundrels to light out before they had massacred me.”

      “I haven’t seen you before, have I?” she said. “You don’t live around here.”

      “My name is Cape Sloan.” He added, “I’m a stranger in these parts.”

      The horse of one of the raiders was grazing close to the trace. No sign of the second one could be seen. The animal had probably run down the road after the departing outlaws.

      Sloan unhitched the horse from the buggy and removed the harness. The girl’s eyes followed him as he moved.

      “My name is Alexandra Ranger,” she said. “This is my brother Nelson. We live at the Circle J R ranch.”

      “If your father is John Ranger I think I’ve met him,” Sloan answered, his eyes grim.

      She looked down at the dead man and shuddered “It’s . . . dreadful, isn’t it? Who can they be? What did they want?” Her voice was low and held a moving huskiness. It stirred in him a queer emotion he did not understand. Except for diversion women had not meant much in his young life. It had been many years since he had exchanged a smile with one.

      “They belong to Pablo Lopez’ gang. A mess of them are raiding this district today.” He did not mention that he had last seen a dozen of them trying to kill her father. If there was bad news waiting for her she would learn it in time without his help. “We’ve got to get out of here pronto. I don’t know how far away the rest of the gang are. Your brother can ride this horse. You’ll have to take that one.” He indicated the one the dead man had been riding.

      “Yes,” she replied, taking orders from him without comment. The color had washed out of her cheeks, but she gave no evidence of hysteria. “Can you help Nels up?”

      He lifted the boy to the back of the buggy horse.

      “You’re all right, aren’t you?” he asked. “Not lightheaded?”

      “Sure, I’m all right. Where are we going?”

      “I don’t know yet. Just now into the brush.” He turned to Alexandra. “You’ll have to ride astride.”

      “Yes. Will you help me up, please? It’s such a high horse.”

      He put a hand under one foot and lifted. She swung into the seat and tried to pull her skirts down, but a long stretch of slender shapely leg showed.

      For anything that his wooden face registered she might have been a wrinkled Indian squaw. His eyes apparently took no note of the small firm breasts or of the long curves of her gracious figure. His job was to save them and himself. He wasted no time on amenities. He whipped up his left arm and said curtly, “This way.”

      Though fear was still knocking at her heart, she was full of curiosity about him. The horse he was riding bore a

brand. What was he doing with one of her father’s mounts? Why had he stiffened at mention of her name? He was a man who unconsciously invited the eyes of women, not less because of his obvious indifference to them. There was strength in the bone conformation of his face and a sardonic recklessness in the expression. The motions of his body showed an easy grace, due to the poised co-ordination of mind and long flowing muscles. She had never seen one more sure of himself.

      They cut into the chaparral, Sloan bringing up the rear. In silence they traveled for at least a mile before he halted the little procession.

      “How far is the nearest ranch?” he inquired.

      “About three miles, maybe,” Nelson answered. “The Blunt place. Wouldn’t you say about three miles, Sandra?”

      Sandra thought that might be right.

      The men hunting the rustlers were to rendezvous at Blunt’s. Cape guessed that would be the safest point for which to strike.

      “Let’s go,” he said.

      “Wait,” Sandra cried, pointing to a red stain on his shirt. “You’re wounded. Where the knife cut you.”

      Sloan brushed aside her concern impatiently. “A scratch. It will wait.”

      5. A Reunion at Blunt’s

      THE BATTLE OF THE WASH HAD DEVELOPED INTO A SNIPERS’ contest. This suited the defenders. Time was running in their favor. Lopez had to get the stock across the line before his retreat was cut off. Soon he would decide that was more important than killing two or three gringos. Moreover, there was always the chance that cowmen riding to the rendezvous at Blunt’s would hear the firing and come to the rescue.

      “All we have to do is sit tight and hold the fort,” Ranger said. “I’ve been in a lot worse holes than this.”

      “What I’d like is to get a bead on old Lopez himself and watch him kick,” growled Uhlmann.

      “What I’d rather see is the whole caboodle of them high-tailin’ it away from here,” McNulty differed. Though he did not feel comfortable he had settled down and was behaving better.

      The words were hardly out of his mouth before the attackers began to evacuate their positions. Those in the wash could see the dust of moving cattle. There were still occasional shots from the brush, but it was an easy guess that a few men were posted to hold them until the stock could be pushed a mile or two toward the line.

      It was half an hour later before the cattlemen dared leave their cover. Very cautiously they moved, fearing an ambuscade. But the raiders had cleared out.

      There was no thought at present of attempting to recover the cattle. Bill Hays had to be got to a place where his wound could be properly dressed. Blunt’s ranch was the nearest.

      Ranger thought the wounded man could not get that far on horseback. “One of us could go get a buckboard,” he suggested. “The rest of us could carry him out to the cow trail that runs up to Coyote Creek.”

      Uhlmann offered to ride to Blunt’s.

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