A FIGHT TO A FINISH
“They are heading for the mountains!” shouted Tom as he and Two-gun
Pete drew together.
“Yes, but we’ll chase ’em into the foothills afore we quit,” raged
Pete. “Ain’t hit, be ye?”
“No.”
“Thet’s good.”
The two riders again settled down to their work, pushing their
ponies to utmost speed. Then they observed that the ruffians were
beginning to spread out, to scatter, a move that Two-gun Pete
understood perfectly. They were planning to take to the mountains as
individuals rather than as a body. This would make pursuit more
difficult, in fact, practically impossible.
Both Tom and Pete had had many close calls from bullets, but neither
gave much heed to them. They were too busy to consider something
that had passed, and again, they had advantage in that they were
pursuing while their adversaries were fleeing before them.
“Now give ’em the rifles!” yelled Pete as the pursued riders neared
the foothills. “Keep shootin’!”
The pair unlimbered their rifles, and soon afterwards other
cowpunchers who had joined them did the same. The heavy firing was
plainly audible to the girls of the Overland party, who, fearing for
their companions, were very nervous, and Joe Bindloss paced back and
forth at the camp listening, his face stern, both hands tightly
clenched.
“I hope they kill some of them devils! I hope they do!” he growled.
In the meantime Tom Gray and the cowpunchers were at it hammer and
tongs, nor did they cease firing until the last of the supposed
horse thieves were out of sight in the deep shadows in the
foothills.
“I reckon thet’s about all,” observed Two-gun Pete dryly. “What I
wants to know is whar thet fightin’ friend of yours is.”
“Can’t we give Lieutenant Wingate a gun signal to come in?” asked
Tom, a note of anxiety in his tone.
“No. Thet will be givin’ notice to them critters thet we’ve finished
this heah little game, an’ I don’t want them to have thet
satisfaction. We’ll mosey about a little an’ see if we kin find Mr.
Wingate.” Pete, followed by Tom, worked up and down the valley
parallel with the mountain ranges for some little time without
discovering Hippy; then all of a sudden, Pete uttered a
_whoo—pe-e-e!_ It was answered instantly, and two men rode
cautiously out of the darkness. They proved to be Sierra Joe and
Nevada, who said the others were somewhere to the north. A distant
hail told the men that the others also had heard Pete’s call and
were heading in his direction. Tom, worried as he was about Hippy,
could not but admire the efficient manner in which these men of the
open worked. It was a revelation to him. Shortly after that the rest
of the party rode in.
“Has any of you cayuses seen anythin’ of the Old Man’s friend?”
questioned Pete.
“Is he the feller that was workin’ to the south?” asked Nevada.
“Yes,” spoke up Tom.
“Wal, he quit firin’ some little piece back thar. I reckon mebby he
got winged,” announced Nevada.
“Line up, fellers! Take yer ranges by the hills on the other side of
the valley and look sharp. I reckon mebby thar’s some other things
to find in this heah valley,” added Pete significantly.
The search for Hippy began without a moment’s delay, fast and
efficient, but without a trace of excitement. The attitude of his
companions steadied Tom and assisted him to keep his head clear.
Two dead ponies were found first by Sierra, and near them lay two
men, both dead. Sierra hailed his companions and when they arrived
he struck a match to look at the victims.
“Chuck the light!” commanded Pete sternly.
The words were barely past his lips when a bullet _pinged_ through
the air over their heads.
“Ain’t you got no sense, Sierra?” demanded Pete disgustedly. “Don’t
ye do thet agin. Them fellers aire waitin’ fer us to give them a
show, an’ I reckon they’ll hang out in the foothills fer some time
yit. Anybody know these critters?”
Each cowboy took a look at the victims, but none recognized them.
The brand on the dead mustangs also was unknown to them.
“Can’t do nothin’ till daylight. Hit the trail agin,” ordered Pete,
whereupon the search for Hippy Wingate was resumed. It was Tom Gray
who found him, nearly a mile from their last stand.
“Help here!” shouted Tom.
Pete heard and understood. With the others, he spurred to the scene,
finding Tom Gray on the ground bending over the stretched-out form
of the fallen Overlander.
“Is he daid?” questioned Sierra anxiously.
“No. He is alive, but he must be badly hurt. He has been here for
some time and is still unconscious. That looks bad. Boys, we must
get him to camp as quickly as possible. How shall we do it?”
“I’ll take him on my ’tang,” answered Pete. “Wait till I git up;
then boost him up to me and I’ll do the rest. Nevada, you ride back
a piece to make sure thet we ain’t followed, an’ give us a good
start. You kin come on in then.”
Hippy’s limp form was lifted into Two-gun Pete’s arms, and giving
the pony the reins, Pete touched the animal with a light spur and
the journey back to camp was begun. It was not a gentle ride for the
wounded Overlander. In fact it was a killing ride, and when they
came in sight of the campfire, the pony was white with lather.
It was at this juncture that Hippy began to mutter and struggle.
“Thet’s all right, pard. Yer on yer way back to camp, and Pete’s the
boy thet’s takin’ ye; so jest rest easy-like. Cap, ride in an’ tell
’em we aire comin’.”
Tom spurred ahead, and by the time Pete and his burden rode in, the
Overlanders were ready to receive them. All were pale, though Nora,
who might have been expected to go to pieces, was calm, in fact
fully as much so as Elfreda and Grace who, as hospital workers in
the great war, were used to scenes of this sort.
Hippy’s face, as he was lifted from Two-gun Pete’s arms, was seen to
be covered with blood.
“Place him by the fire where we can see,” directed Grace. “Stacy,
fetch water, and be quick about it!”
“I’ll get my kit and be back in a moment,” announced Elfreda.
Blankets were spread out by the campfire, and on them the wounded
Hippy was laid, and by the time Elfreda returned, Grace had sponged
away the blood from his face and head.
“A bullet has laid his scalp open on the right side,” she announced.
“If there are no other wounds he will pull through all right. Do you
hear me, Hippy?”
“Ye—es.”
“Is this the only wound you have?”
“No. In leg,” answered the patient weakly.
Nora pulled up the trousers from both limbs and discovered that the
left one was bloody from half way below the knee down, and it was
Nora’s hands that washed the wound clean and prepared it for the
dressing.
Elfreda Briggs, by this time, had returned with her first-aid kit,
and was critically examining the scalp wound, Grace Harlowe standing
over her with face full of interest and sympathy.
“This must be sewed up as soon as we have treated it,” announced
Miss Briggs, nodding up at her companion. “Hippy, I shall have to
take several stitches in your scalp, and I am going to hurt you. You
won’t mind, will you, after all the fun you have been having
tonight?”
“Get it over with,” muttered Hippy.
“Grace, you might dress the leg while I am doing this embroidery
work for Hippy. Did the bullet go all the way through the leg?”
“Ye—es,” replied Nora. “I—I think so.”
“It did, through the fleshy part. It is not a bad wound,”
volunteered Grace.
Miss Briggs began her work at once, and performed it quickly and
skillfully. Hippy, despite himself, flinched under each needle
thrust. A group of wondering, open-mouthed cowpunchers watched the
Overland girl perform her operation, and by the time she had
finished stitching the scalp together, Grace had completed her task
on the leg wound.
“Oh! He’s dead!” cried Nora, after a quick look into Hippy’s now
ghastly pale face.
“Don’t get excited! He has fainted, that’s all,” comforted Miss
Briggs, who thereupon proceeded to revive her patient. The pain had
been a little more than Hippy, in his weakened condition, could
bear, and under it he had swooned.
Old Joe Bindloss clutched off his sombrero and mopped the
perspiration from his forehead.
“Wal! I’ve seen some things in my time, but I’ll be shot for a hoss
thief if I ever come up with the like of this,” rumbled the rancher.
Hippy opened his eyes and a faint grin appeared on his face,
whereat, the cowpunchers, as one man, heaved a deep breath of
relief. They stood about awkwardly, sombreros tucked under their
arms, not knowing what they ought to do, but quite positive to a man
that they wished there were more patients to be treated so that they
might stay where they were and watch these capable young women work
for the rest of the night.