Flying Bullets
A rosy dawn broke over the prairie. It shone on a group of men
moving quickly about. Near them the smoke from a campfire arose. A
few pans, containing the remains of a range breakfast, lay near it
on the ground. Horses were being saddled, blankets rolled, rifles
were being wiped dry from the morning dew. But there was an
orderliness about this activity, a purpose in every movement of the
figures. Every man knew exactly what he had to do, and was doing it,
swiftly and definitely.
Teddy was tightening a cinch-strap, and he looked up as Roy called
to him:
“Need any help? I’m all set.”
“No thanks, Roy. I’ll make it.” The strap was quickly adjusted, and
Teddy vaulted into the saddle.
The others were mounting now, and the party soon started to move
forward. Mr. Manley and Jake Trummer were leading, while Teddy, Roy
and Jules Kolto, the latter seeming like a new man after his sleep,
followed directly behind. The rest rode along in the rear. Kolto was
astride the pinto he had stolen, but now he sat with his head held
firmly and his chin thrust forward. He was a hunted thief no longer,
but a man.
Down toward the river the line of riders swept. They came fast and
silently. In the crook of each right arm rested a rifle. On every
face was a look of fixed determination.
The sun was high when the leaders held up cautioning hands, and the
column of horsemen stopped suddenly.
“There’s a bunch of cows just ahead,” Mr. Manley said tensely.
“Can’t tell yet if they’re ours, but I think they are. Now ride slow
an’ easy. We’ll come up careful an’ have a look.”
Once more the riders started forward, this time spread further
apart, so that they came upon the cattle from different directions.
Pop was the first to single out a cow and look at her brand. Then he
rode swiftly toward Teddy and Roy, who were nearest.
“They’re ours, boys!” he yelled. “I spotted the ole X Bar X brand in
a minute! When I invented that, long ago, I figgered it would be
easy to see at a distance! Yep, boys, they’re here!”
“Tell dad!” Roy called. “Teddy, we’ll ride around them and see where
his dis-honor, Denver Smith, is!”
Spurring their ponies forward, the two boys flashed over the ground,
making a wide circle around the milling cattle.
“Looks like the cows are all safe!” Teddy yelled as he sped along.
“Now for Denver Smith!”
Behind Teddy and Roy came Bug Eye and Nat Raymond, bending low in
their saddles, holding their rifles in readiness. Their pistols were
loose in the holsters, should close range fighting hamper the use of
the longer barreled rifles.
The four punchers dashed over the ground. Now they came to the head
of the cattle herd.
“They ought to be near here!” Teddy shouted, referring to the
rustlers, “unless they got scared an’ beat it!”
But he saw almost immediately that this latter was not so. From the
opposite side of the herd four men came riding, their guns out,
their horses in a lather of foam.
“Spread!” Roy yelled. “Get apart! And fire low--they’ll kill us if
they can!”
As the approaching rustlers came closer, their guns began to bark.
Bullets whined overhead, and Teddy answered with a shot from his
rifle. But this weapon was useless on the back of a rearing bronco.
The boy thrust it into his saddle holster and drew his six-gun.
The four rustlers were bunched together and coming like a flying
wedge. Teddy realized the wisdom of Roy’s shouted advice to “spread”
when he took quick aim at the group and fired. One of the rustlers
gave a wild yell and clapped his hand to his side.
“Hope that was Denver,” Teddy said to himself grimly. “Let ’em have
it, Roy!” he yelled. “Pepper ’em!”
Roy was doing that very thing. The bullets of the rustlers were
coming uncomfortably close, and when they swept past, Roy saw one of
them take deliberate aim at Pop Burns and pull the trigger. The
veteran lurched, recovered himself, and, wheeling his pony about,
followed the outlaws.
“Hurt bad, Pop?” Roy called, his face white.
“Nope! Shoulder--left!” Pop shouted back. “All right. Go get ’em!”
Greatly relieved at Pop’s answer, Roy sped onward. He thought that
the rustlers would seek to escape, but this did not now appear to be
their plan. They had worked hard to drive the cattle thus far, and
were not going to give them up without a struggle.
However, they changed their minds when Mr. Manley, Jake Trummer, and
the others came into sight from beyond a rise.
The boss of the X Bar X had ridden in from the south side, trying to
see if the cattle were indeed his, but the two men and their
companions had whirled about as soon as they heard the firing. Now,
with guns out, they rode for the rustlers.
Leading the attackers who were in the reserves, was Jules Kolto. The
pinto he was on had outdistanced the others, and, before he knew it,
he was face to face with the four cattle thieves.
“Denver!” Teddy heard Kolto yell, “I want you!”
There was a reply from the group of thieves, but it was
unintelligible to Teddy. Then a single shot snapped and Kolto swayed
in the saddle. Releasing his hold, he fell heavily to the ground,
while his pony, mad with fright, raced on without him.
Teddy and Roy reached his side at the same instant and leaped from
their horses. The rustlers were in full flight now, so there was no
danger that they would attack the boys on foot.
As Roy leaned over the former bandit, Kolto grinned faintly.
“Got me--at last,” he gasped. “Denver--shot me. That’s poetical
justice--or somethin’--ain’t it? One bandit shoots another!”
“Where did you get it?” Teddy asked quickly.
“Chest--” and Kolto went into a fit of coughing. When it subsided he
asked:
“Where’s Denver?”
Roy pointed silently, and, pushing himself up on one elbow, Kolto
stared over the prairie. In the distance four horsemen were burning
up the ground. They were beaten--they had failed. Two of them had
bullet holes in their skins. The score was even.
“Good riddance,” Kolto whispered. “Say, where’s yore dad?”
Mr. Manley rode up at the moment. He had ordered the chase
discontinued, as useless. They had got their cattle back. What good
would it do to kill the rustlers?
Mr. Manley had seen Kolto fall, but he knew Teddy and Roy were
nearer than he, so he had continued to gallop after Denver Smith.
But now the fight was over. Mr. Manley rode up to where Jules Kolto
lay and quickly dismounted.
“What’s the trouble, son?” he asked solicitously. He bent over and
ripped Kolto’s shirt open. There was a small wound in the right
shoulder. He turned the man over gently, and found a corresponding
hole at the back. The bullet had passed completely through.
“Whoever used a bullet like that is a mighty poor judge of
firearms,” Mr. Manley said grimly. “You’re lucky, Kolto. Not a
chance of your passin’ out. The bullet hit your collar bone and
knocked you off your horse. You got a nice hole in you--but that’s
all it’ll amount to.”
“I--I won’t die?” Kolto asked, sitting up and looking uncertainly
about.
“Nary die! You got to work fer me, young feller! No, don’t get up
yet. We’ll bandage you first to stop the bleedin’. Where’s that
other cripple? Pop, come over here! What do you mean ridin’ around
with a forty-five bullet bouncin’ around inside you? Get off that
bronc--an’ quick! You bald-headed ole hoss-wrangler!”