"Down the draw," responded Riley.
"Near the Hillsville trail," was Hazel's opinion. "There goes another,
and another."
"It's no hunter," declared Billy. "I can hear horses galloping."
Within five minutes they three saw a horse come galloping. He was
tearing up the draw. The man on his back was half-turned about in the
saddle, a rifle at his shoulder. He fired. They could not see what he
was firing at. There was a bend in the draw concealing what was behind
him.
But they could hear the galloping of the other horses quite plainly.
The drum of the racing hoofs grew louder. Three horses swept round the
bend in the draw. They were followed by two others. The pursuers
uttered a yell as they sighted the house. The pursued fired twice
without effect. There was a crackle of shots from the five horsemen.
Apparently none took effect on either the pursued or his mount.
Billy regarded the pursued's mount with critical eyes. "That horse is
about done."
"Yeah," acquiesced Riley. "Not another mile left in him."
It was but too evident that the horse was in distress. He rolled a
little in his stride. Once he stumbled. The rider caught him up with
a jerk. The man turned a desperate, determined face toward the house
in the draw ahead of him. He was not fifty yards from the house. The
draw was wide. He sheered his horse to one side. The animal
staggered, crossed his legs and turned a complete somersault. The
rider flew from the saddle, turned over in the air and struck hard on
his head and right shoulder. The horse lurched to his feet and stood
trembling. The man lay still.
The pursuing horsemen were coming along at their tightest licks, but it
was Billy and Riley Tyler who were the first to reach the fallen man.
Hazel, kilting her skirt in both hands, had run with them.
Billy stooped and turned over the sprawled-out citizen. The man, a
square-jawed youngster with a stubby brown mustache, lay breathing
heavily. His sun-burnt skin was a little white. Hazel pushed Billy to
one side and sat down beside the young fellow.
"Let me," she said quietly, and took his head in her lap. "Riley, get
me some water quick and the whisky bottle on the shelf over the
fireplace."
Riley darted toward the house.
The five riders dashed up and flung themselves from their saddles.
They were Rafe Tuckleton, Jonesy, the Tuckleton foreman, Ben Shanklin
and two more of the Tuckleton outfit. Billy faced them, his thumbs
hooked in his sagging belt.
"Caught him!" Rafe ejaculated with satisfaction, striding forward, his
men at his heels.
"He don't look shot any," said Jonesy.
"Not a hole in him," Billy told them. "He'll be all right in a minute."
Tuckleton laughed harshly. "He's due for a relapse about a minute
after that. Jonesy, get your rope. That spruce up there on the flat
will be fine."
Hazel uttered a gasp of horror.
"What do you expect to hang him for, Rafe?" demanded Billy.
"Caught him branding one of my calves," was the ugly reply. "Reason
enough?"
"I don't believe it!" cried Hazel.
"You know him?" Rafe inquired contemptuously.
"I never saw him before in my life. But he doesn't look like a
rustler. He's got a good face."
The Tuckleton outfit was moved to mirth.
"A good face!" yelped the fox-faced Ben Shanklin, slapping his leg. "A
good face! That's a fine one!"
"I expect we'll have to turn him loose, boys," Jonesy said
sarcastically, returning from his horse, and shaking out the coil of
rope.
"Oh, I guess we'll string him up all right," Rafe said with confidence.
"Don't let them, Billy!" begged Hazel.