THE AMBUSH
Streak had done well, having slightly improved on the limit set for the
trip by Mary Bransford. With no delay whatever, Williams and his men
and the Double A cowpunchers were headed for the ranchhouse, their
horses running hard.
Sanderson was leading them, though close behind came several of the
Double A men, their faces set and grim; and then one of Williams' men,
a young fellow who had admired Mary Bransford from afar; then some more
of the Double A men, and Williams and the remainder of his band of
engineers.
There was no word spoken. In a few swift sentences Sanderson had told
them what had occurred, and there was no need for words as they fled
southwestward.
For a few miles the trail was hard and smooth, and the posse made good
time. Then they struck a stretch of broken country, where volcanic
action had split the surface of the earth into fissures and chasms,
thus making speed impossible.
It took them long to cross the section, and when it was behind them
they found themselves in a hilly country where the going was not much
better than it had been in the volcanic area.
The trail was narrow, and they were forced to travel in single file.
Sanderson led the way, Streak thundering along, a living blot splitting
the brown, barren wasteland, followed closely by other blots, rushing
over the hazardous trail, the echoes of their passing creating a rumble
as of drumfire reverberating in a cañon.
They came to a point where the trail led upward sharply, veering around
the shoulder of a hill and dropping precipitously into a valley.
For an instant, as the riders flashed around the shoulder of the hill,
they caught a glimpse of a group of riders coming toward them, visible
to Sanderson and the others as they were for a second exposed to view
in a narrow defile. Then the view of them was cut off, and Sanderson
and the men following him were in the valley, riding desperately, as
before.
Still there had been no word said. Sanderson had seen the oncoming
riders, but he attached no importance to their appearance, for
cowpunchers often rode in groups to some outlying camp, and these men
might belong to some ranch in the vicinity.
There was a straight stretch of hard, smooth trail in the center of the
valley, and Sanderson made Streak take it with a rush. Sanderson
grinned grimly as he heard the other men coming close behind him--they
were as eager as he, and as vengeful.
Up out of the valley went Streak, running with long, smooth leaps that
gave no indication of exhaustion; Sanderson patted his neck as he raced
upward out of the valley and into the defile where they had seen the
riders.
Sanderson was halfway up the defile when he was assailed with the
thought that by this time--even before this--they should have met the
other riders--had the latter kept the trail.
Struck by a sudden suspicion that there was something strange about the
disappearance of the riders, Sanderson abruptly pulled Streak up. The
other men were some distance behind, and Sanderson slipped out of the
saddle to give Streak a breathing spell.
The movement saved his life, for his feet had hardly struck the ground
when he heard the thud of a rifle bullet, the sharp crash of the
weapon, and saw the leaden missile rip the leather on the cantle of the
saddle.
As though the shot were a signal, there followed others--a ripping,
crashing volley. Sanderson saw the smoke spurts ballooning upward from
behind some rocks and boulders that dotted the hills on both sides of
the defile, he saw several of his men drop from their horses and fall
prone to the ground.
He shouted to the men to leave their horses and "take cover," and he
himself sought the only cover near him--a wide fissure in the wall of
the long slope below the point where the attackers were concealed.
Streak, apparently aware of the danger, followed Sanderson into the
shelter of the fissure.
It was an admirable spot for an ambuscade. Sanderson saw that there
were few places in which his men could conceal themselves, for the
hostile force occupied both sides of the defile. Their rifles were
still popping, and Sanderson saw two of the Double A force go down
before they could find shelter.
Sanderson divined what had happened--Dale and his men had overpowered
Owen, and had set this ambuscade for himself and the Double A men.
Dale was determined to murder all of them; it was to be a fight to a
finish--that grim killing of an entire outfit, which, in the idiomatic
phraseology of the cowpuncher, is called a "clean-up."
Sanderson was aware of the disadvantage which must be faced, but there
was no indication of fear or excitement in his manner. It was not the
first time he had been in danger, and he drew his belt tighter and
examined his pistols as he crouched against the ragged wall of the
fissure. Then, calling Streak to him, he pulled his rifle out of the
saddle holster and examined the magazine.
Rifle in hand, he first surveyed the wall of the defile opposite him.
The crevice in which he was hiding was irregular at the entrance, and a
jutting shoulder of it concealed him from view from the wall of the
defile opposite him. Another projection, opposite the jutting
shoulder, protected him from any shots that might be aimed at him from
his left.
The fissure ran, with sharp irregularities, clear up the face of the
wall behind him. He grinned with satisfaction when he saw that there
were a number of places along the upward line of the fissure which
would afford him concealment in an offensive battle with Dale's men.
He contemplated making things rather warm for the Dale contingent
presently; but first he must make sure that none of his own men was
exposed to danger.
Cautiously, then, he laid his head close to the ragged wall of the
fissure and peered upward and outward. Behind a big boulder on the
opposite side of the defile he saw a man's head appear.
Watching for a time, Sanderson made certain the man was not one of his
own outfit, and then he shoved the muzzle of his rifle out, laid his
cheek against the stock, and covered the partly exposed head of the man
behind the boulder.
Sanderson waited long with his cheek caressing the rifle stock, while
the man behind the boulder wriggled farther out, exposing himself more
and more in his eagerness to gain a more advantageous position.
And presently, without moving his head, Sanderson discovered that it
was Williams who was in danger.
Williams had concealed himself behind a jagged rock, which protected
him from the bullets fired from across the defile, and from the sides.
But the rock afforded him no protection from the rear, and the man
behind the boulder was going to take advantage of his opportunity.
"That's my engineer, mister," he said grimly; "an' I ain't lettin' you
make me go to the trouble of sendin' east for another. You're ready
now, eh?"
The man behind the boulder had reached a position that satisfied him.
Sanderson saw him snuggle the stock of his rifle against his shoulder.
Sanderson's rifle cracked viciously. The man behind the boulder was
lying on a slight slope, and when Sanderson's bullet struck him, he
gently rolled over and began to slide downward. He came--a grotesque,
limp thing--down the side of the defile, past the engineer, sliding
gently until he landed in a queer-looking huddle at the bottom, near
the trail.
Sanderson intently examined other rocks and boulders on the opposite
side of the defile. He had paid no attention to Williams' "Good work,
Sanderson!" except to grin and assure himself that Williams hadn't
"lost his nerve."
Presently at an angle that ran obliquely upward from a flat, projecting
ledge, behind which another Double A man lay, partly concealed,
Sanderson detected movement.
It was only a hat that he saw this time, and a glint of sunlight on the
barrel of a rifle. But he saw that the rifle, after moving, became
quite motionless, and he suspected that it was about to be used.
Again the cheek snuggled the stock of his rifle.
"This is goin' to be some shot--if I make it!" he told himself just
before he fired. "There ain't nothin' to shoot at but one of his ears,
looks like."
But at the report of the rifle, the weapon that had been so rigid and
motionless slipped from behind the rock and clattered downward. It
caught halfway between the rock and the bottom of the defile. There
came no sound from behind the rook, and no movement.
"Got him!" yelled Williams. "Go to it! There's only two more on this
side, that I can see. They're trying mighty hard to perforate me--I'm
losing weight dodging around here trying to keep them from drawing a
bead on me. If I had a rifle----"
Williams' voice broke off with the crash of a rifle behind him, though
a little to one side. Talking to Sanderson, and trying to see him,
Williams had stuck his head out a little too far. The bullet from the
rifle of the watching enemy clipped off a small piece of the engineer's
ear.
Williams' voice rose in impotent rage, filling the defile with profane
echoes. Sanderson did not hear Williams. He had chanced to be looking
toward the spot from whence the smoke spurt came.
A fallen tree, its top branches hanging down the wall of the defile,
provided concealment from which the enemy had sent his shot at
Williams. Sanderson snapped a shot at the point where he had seen the
smoke streak, and heard a cry of rage.
A man, his face distorted with pain, stood up behind the fallen tree
trunk, the upper part of his body in plain view.
His rage had made him reckless, and he had stood erect the better to
aim his rifle at the fissure in which Sanderson was concealed. He
fired--and missed, for Sanderson had ducked at the movement. Sanderson
heard the bullet strike the rock wall above his head, and go
ricochetting into the cleft behind him.
He peered out again instantly, to see that the man was lying doubled
across the fallen tree trunk, his rifle having dropped, muzzle down, in
some bushes below him.
Sanderson heard Williams' voice, raised in savage exultation:
"Nip my ear, will you--yon measly son-of-a-gun! I'll show you!
"Got him with my pistol!" he yelled to one of the Double A men near
him. "Come on out and fight like men, you miserable whelps!"
The young engineer's fighting blood was up--that was plain to
Sanderson. Sanderson grinned, yielded to a solemn hope that Williams
would not get reckless and expose himself needlessly, and began to
examine the walls of the fissure to determine on a new offensive
movement.
He was interrupted, though, by another shout from Williams.
"Got him!" yelled the engineer; "plumb in the beezer!"
Sanderson peered out, to see the body of a man come tumbling down the
opposite wall of the defile.
"That's all on this side!" Williams informed the others, shouting.
"Now let's get at the guys on the other side and salivate them!"
Again Sanderson grinned at the engineer's enthusiasm. That enthusiasm
was infectious, for Sanderson heard some of the other men laughing.
The laughing indicated that they now entertained a hope of ultimate
victory--a hope which they could not have had before Williams and
Sanderson had disposed of the enemies at their rear.
Sanderson, too, was imbued with a spirit of enthusiasm. He began to
climb the walls of the crevice, finding the ragged rock projections
admirably convenient for footing.
However, his progress was slow, for he had to be careful not to let his
head show above the edge of the rock that formed the fissure; and so he
was busily engaged for the greater part of half an hour before he
finally reached a position from which he thought he could get a glimpse
of the men on his side of the defile.
Meanwhile there had been no sound from the bottom, or the other side of
the defile, except an occasional report of a rifle, which told that
Dale's men were firing, or the somewhat more crashing report of a
pistol, which indicated that his own men were replying.
From where he crouched in the fissure, Sanderson could see some of the
horses at the bottom of the defile. They were grazing unconcernedly.
Scattered along the bottom of the defile were the men who had fallen at
the first fire, and Sanderson's eye glinted with rage when he looked at
them; for he recognized some of them as men of the outfit for whom he
had conceived a liking. Two of Williams' men were lying there, too,
and Sanderson's lips grimmed as he looked at them.
Thoroughly aroused now, Sanderson replaced the empty cartridges in the
rifle with loaded ones, and, finding a spot between two small boulders,
he shoved the muzzle of the rifle through.
He had no fear of being shot at from the rear, for the men had
permitted him to go far enough through the defile to allow the others
following him to come into range before they opened fire.
Thus Sanderson was between the Dale outfit and the Double A ranchhouse,
and he had only to look back in the direction from which he and
Williams had come. None of the Dale men could cross the fissure.
Cautiously Sanderson raised his head above the rocky edge of the
fissure. He kept his head concealed behind the two small boulders and
he had an uninterrupted view of the entire side of the defile.
He saw a number of men crouching behind rocks and boulders
that were scattered over the steep slope, and he counted them
deliberately--sixteen. He could see their faces plainly, and he
recognized many of them as Dale's men. They were of the vicious type
that are to be found in all lawless communities.
Sanderson's grin as he sighted along the barrel of his rifle was full
of sardonic satisfaction, tempered with a slight disappointment. For
he did not see Dale among the others. Dale, he supposed, had stayed
behind.
The thought of what Dale might be doing at the Double A ranchhouse
maddened Sanderson, and taking quick sight at a man crouching behind a
rock, he pulled the trigger.
Looking only in front of him, at the other side of the defile where
Sanderson's men were concealed, the man did not expect attack from a
new quarter, and as Sanderson's bullet struck him he leaped up, howling
with pain and astonishment, clutching at his breast.
He had hardly exposed himself when several reports from the other side
of the defile greeted him. The man staggered and fell behind his rock,
his feet projecting from one side and his head from the other.
Instantly the battle took on a new aspect. It was a flank attack,
which Dale's men had not anticipated, and it confused them. Several of
them shifted their positions, and in doing so they brought parts of
their bodies into view of the men on the opposite wall.
There rose from the opposite wall a succession of reports, followed by
hoarse cries of pain from Dale's men. They flopped back again, thus
exposing themselves to Sanderson's fire, and the latter lost not one of
his opportunities.
It was the aggressors themselves that were now under cross fire, and
they relished it very little.
A big man, incensed at his inability to silence Sanderson, and wounded
in the shoulder, suddenly left the shelter of his rock and charged
across the steep face of the slope toward the fissure.
This man was brave, despite his associations, but he was a Dale man,
and deserved no mercy. Sanderson granted him none. Halfway of the
distance between his rock and the fissure he charged before Sanderson
shot him. The man fell soundlessly, turning over and over in his
descent to the bottom of the defile.
And then rose Williams' voice--Sanderson grinned with bitter humor:
"We've got them, boys; we've got them. Give them hell, the damned
buzzards!"