Part 107 (1/2)

Bob bounded to his feet. Ware had whirled in his tracks, had crouched, and was glaring fixedly across the openings at the forks. The revolver smoked in his hand.

”Oh, are you hurt? Are you hurt?” Amy was crying over and over, as, regardless of the stiff manzanita and the spiny deer brush, she tore her way down the hill.

”All right! All right!” Bob found his breath to a.s.sure her.

She stopped short, clenched her hands at her sides, and drew a deep, sobbing breath. Then, quite collectedly, she began to disentangle herself from the difficulties into which her haste had precipitated her.

”It's all right,” she called to Ware. ”He's gone. He's run.”

Still tense, Ware rose to his full height. He let down the hammer of his six-shooter, and dropped the weapon back in its holster.

”What was it, Amy?” he asked, as the girl rejoined them.

”Saleratus Bill,” she panted. ”He had his gun in his hand.”

Bob was looking about him a trifle bewildered.

”I thought for a minute I was. .h.i.t,” said he.

”I knocked you down to _get_ you down,” explained Ware. ”If there's shooting going on, it's best to get low.”

”Thought I was shot,” confessed Bob. ”I heard two shots.”

”I fired twice,” said Ware. ”Thought sure I must have hit, or he'd have fired back. Otherwise I'd a' kept shooting. You say he run?”

”Immediately. Didn't you see him?”

”I just cut loose at the noise he made. Why do you suppose he didn't shoot?”

”Maybe he wasn't gunning for us after all,” suggested Bob.

”Maybe you've got another think coming,” said Ware.

During this short exchange they were all three moving down the wagon trail. Ware's keen old eyes were glancing to right, left and ahead, and his ears fairly twitched. In spite of his conversation and speculations, he was fully alive to the possibilities of further danger.

”He maybe's laying for us yet,” said Bob, as the thought finally occurred to him. ”Better have your gun handy.”

”My gun's always handy,” said Ware.

”You're bearing too far south,” interposed the girl. ”He was more up this way.”

”Don't think it,” said Ware.

”Yes,” she insisted. ”I marked that young fir near where I first saw him; and he ran low around that clump of manzanita.”

Still skeptical, Ware joined her.

”That's right,” he admitted, after a moment. ”Here's his trail. I'd have swore he was farther south. That's where I fired. I only missed him by about a hundred yards,” he grinned. ”He sure made a mighty tall sneak.