Sidewinder stood snarling malevolently at Ramsay, his glittering
gray eyes filled with a greenish light, his gray mask of a face
bitter to see.
“What’s happened?” demanded Ramsay.
“Hell’s to pay, that’s what! If I thought you were behind it, I’d
leave you here to the buzzards. Dunno but what I will anyhow.”
Ramsay, frowning in perplexity, came closer to him.
“What do you mean?” he inquired. Sidewinder flung out a hand toward
the desert behind him.
“I mean that the sheriff’s got on our trail; that’s what! Prob’ly
trailed that last bunch of hosses. Now we got to get along to
Hourglass Cañon, and we’ll take you and the girl so’s ye wont do no
talkin’.”
“Oh!” said Ramsay, and then lifted his eyes to the desert. “Is that
dust caused by their car?”
An oath on his lips, Sidewinder whirled—and Ramsay struck.
He struck straight and hard, mercilessly so, and his fist caught
Sidewinder just behind the ear. The little man was knocked off his
feet, knocked headlong into the radiator of the car, and fell in a
limp and senseless heap, stunned.
Ramsay, carried off his balance by the furious energy of his own
blow, staggered. As he did so, a pistol barked and a bullet scraped
his very hair. He came around, to see Tom Emery and Cholo Bill, who
were not yet fifty feet away, in the act of firing on him.
A leap, and he was behind the car. No protection here from heavy
bullets—but he had his own pistol out now, and was taking his
chances. A bullet crashed into the frame of the car. Another smashed
the windshield. Ramsay was firing, rapidly but coolly. Now he ducked
swiftly to the other end of the car, darted out into full sight,
took two quick, sure shots. He saw Cholo Bill go down and lie quiet;
then Emery came for him on the run, red whiskers flaming in the
sunlight, pistol spitting.
Ramsay stepped out, deliberately, and took aim.
A bullet streaked fire between arm and side, searing his ribs—but to
his shot Tom Emery’s giant figure came crashing forward, rolled over
once and then lay sprawled out. For a moment Ramsay stood quiet,
scarcely daring to realize that he was unhurt save for scratches,
until he saw Ethel Gilman running down the cañon toward him.
Then he sprang forward and leaned over Emery, only to rise at once
and hurry to the side of Cholo Bill. Just in time, too, for the
halfbreed, leg broken by a bullet, was trying to reach his fallen
pistol. Ramsay kicked the weapon away, and Cholo Bull, with a low
groan, relaxed into unconsciousness. As Ramsay obtained the outlaw’s
knife, the girl arrived on the scene.
He looked up at her with a slow laugh.
“Sagebrush said it couldn’t be done, but he was only partly right.
Emery’s gone. Can you fix up some sort of bandage for this chap,
after I get his arms lashed behind him? His leg’s broken, I think.
The sheriff is on his way here, according to Sidewinder—and I’ll
have to attend to that gentleman before he wakes up. We’ve got him,
and we’ve got Cholo Bill, and it’s a good haul.”
As the white-faced girl nodded and knelt, Ramsay lashed the arms of
the wounded man firmly behind him with the gay silk kerchief that
had been at Cholo Bill’s neck, then rose and ran back to the car.
Here again he had not an instant to lose, for Sidewinder Crowfoot
was stirring, was clinging to the car and trying to haul himself up.
Knowing with what incredible swiftness the man could strike, Ramsay
did not hesitate, but stooped with a blow that drove Sidewinder
prostrate again, then flung himself upon the fallen man and in five
minutes had him disarmed and firmly bound hand and foot.
He rejoined the girl, to find her finishing her task as well as
circumstances would permit, and as she took his hand to rise, he saw
a change come into her face.
“Another car—there!”
Ramsay swung around, and a laugh broke from him at sight of another
flivver bearing down for the cañon, crowded with men.
“Good! It looks as though the law had come to Pinecate Cañon at
last, young lady!”
Fifteen minutes afterward Ramsay and the grizzled sheriff from
Chuckwalla City were accompanying Miss Gilman up the cañon toward
the girl’s camp, while below them the deputies were getting the
prisoners loaded up and were bringing the five horses to the cars.
All five of those horses had been among the bunch recently stolen
from the other side of the range, and two of the deputies were
preparing to ride on to Hourglass Cañon and take possession of the
herd there.
As the three came to the bend in the cañon, Ramsay halted and drew
from his pocket his brother’s deed, still in its torn envelope.
“Sheriff, here’s evidence of a Federal charge to lay against
Sidewinder Crowfoot—mail-robbery. I think it will serve to give him
a long time in the penitentiary to think upon his sins. Suppose you
look it over, while I say a word to Miss Gilman, will you?”
The sheriff met his whimsical gaze, grinned, and then strode on
around the bend with the evidence in his hand. Ramsay turned to the
girl.
“What do you say about Hourglass Cañon, young lady? Do you want to
share it with me?”
“Well, I’ll go and look at it, but I wont promise anything.”
“All right. That’s fair enough. And you’ll call me Pat?”
Her eyes surveyed him merrily.
“Not until—you get a shave!” she said, and then was gone, running
after the tall figure of the sheriff, a laugh floating back to
Ramsay.
He followed, smiling.
[Transcriber’s Notes:
1. This story is from the January 1924 issue of The Blue Book Magazine.
2. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
spelling.
3. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
4. Words in italics are surrounded by _underscores_ in this text.
]