They parted with a quick clasp of the hand and he turned north, riding up Comb Wash. When he reached Whiskers Draw he swung into it and followed along, carrying his Winchester in his hands and riding with eyes and ears alert. He had no plan, nor could he make one until he could view the situation that awaited him.
There was every chance that the KR hands had been caught in the rush of cattle or shot down by the Forty riders. There was a small chance they had escaped, but one scarcely worth mentioning for they were fighting men, not running men. Their only hope in that way, Lance understood, was that Jaime Brigo was uncommonly cunning. He might have done something—on the other hand the men might be lying helpless and injured. He had to know and there was no time to be lost. He had covered the miles at a space-eating gait but the gray seemed in no whit disturbed by it. In fact, when he slowed down the gray tugged irritably at the bit, wanting to run. At the cottonwoods he paused. Here, tonight, he was to have met the crowd for their attack on the Forty. Too late now—or was it? Considering that, he shook his head to clear his mind and returned to the thoughts of the present. This was going to be touch and go. Without doubt the country was crawling with Forty riders and they would be hunting Nita as well as himself. With men on the KR, at the camp of the Forty and in Horsehead, he would be in a bottleneck that offered but one escape, retreat the way he had come. Dismounting, Kilkenny crept up to the side of the draw and surveyed the country before him.
The herd had scattered, spreading over the KR range, and they were feeding on the rich grass of the new range. Among them a few riders rode, but they seemed to be congregating at a particular point. That point was near the KR ranch house. A few minutes later the wagons from the Forty headquarters came into sight, headed for the KR. Obviously Tetlow was taking up headquarters at the latter house.
Returning to his horse, Kilkenny advanced with extreme caution, pausing every few yards to listen. He heard no sound, but presently Whiskers Draw gave into Cottonwood Wash, which had been the edge of the KR range, and it was along this wash that the KR hands had been holding their ground. No sound disturbed the clear air of the afternoon. There was a faint smell of dust in the air remaining from the stampede, and the smell of sun-warmed grass. Keeping away from any stones that might make a sound under his horse’s hoofs, he rode forward. When he was over a mile from the opening of Whiskers Draw he drew up. Here the wash was partly overgrown with low cottonwoods and willows, and there were some larger boulders scattered about. Dismounting again, Kilkenny spoke reassuringly to the gray, then walked ahead on cat feet, his rifle at the ready.
The first sound he heard was faint, a rustling. He paused, the rifle coming up. Then he heard a low moan, and he wheeled. The bank on the east side had been broken by the rush of cattle and had caved into the wash. Moving toward it, he saw a bloody hand projecting from under the earth. Dropping a hand to a boulder top, he vaulted over it and landed beside that hand, and then he could see the face of a man lying on his stomach, his head turned side-wise, also projecting from under the caved-in earth. It was Cain, and the big man was conscious. Swiftly Kilkenny attacked the pile of earth with his hands, pulling it away from the fallen man’s body. Working desperately, he stopped suddenly to hear the sound of a walking horse! Straightening up, he stared at the bank, panic sweeping him. There was no way to get Cain quickly uncovered nor to move him. A shot would bring a dozen riders, in a matter of minutes, and—he heard the horse stop, and then the creak of a saddle. Crouching among the boulders, Kilkenny lifted a finger and saw that Cain understood.
The man showed above the edge of the bank, then dropped over. It was Phin Tetlow.
A big, wide-shouldered man, he walked with easy step and he looked curiously around. Obviously he had seen something here that he felt warranted investigation, and he had returned alone for that purpose. He looked around, then walked to a clump of willows and peered into it, then cautiously approached a bunch of boulders.
Kilkenny crouched lower, cursing his luck. He could not shoot it out with Phin and then run for it to leave Cain helpless in this position. His horse was out of sight, but further search might show it to Phin. Kilkenny drew back, easing away from Cain, and the big man watched him go, his eyes wide and trusting as those of a big dog from whose paw one extracts a thorn. Phin was working nearer and nearer, and now he straightened and looked toward the fallen earth. Quickly, as if having an idea, he strode toward it. He paused when he came in sight of Cain. Kilkenny could see the expression on Phin Tetlow’s face, and was puzzled by it.
Phin moved closer. “The big one, huh? I figured the herd must have got somebody here. I seen you a minute or so afore they hit this bank. It would have been a miracle if you was safe.”
He sat down on a boulder and calmly lit a cigarette. “Can’t move, huh? Well, I reckon you’re my meat then. Funny thing. I never kilt a man. Andy has. He kilt eight or nine. Andy’s good, maybe better than Havalik. Even Ben kilt an outlaw down in the Big Bend, and a couple of Indians. Me, I never kilt nobody.” He chuckled. “Well, I won’t have to say that tomorrow. Because I’m fixin’ to kill you.
“Makes a man,” he said, “feel mighty small when he ain’t blooded. Even Ben, an’ he don’t like to fight. He thinks too much.” He drew deep on the cigarette. “Pap figured you for the tough one. Now here you are, caught like a rabbit in a trap. I don’t even need to waste a shot. I’m going to bash your head in with a rock.” He got to his feet and stretched, and Kilkenny, close behind him now, reached out and grabbed him by the gun belt. He gave a tremendous jerk and Phin Tetlow’s heels flew up and he hit the boulder hard and turned heels over head to the ground behind it. Kilkenny swung a wicked backhand blow that smashed Tetlow’s nose, stifling his yell to a squealing gnmt. Then he slugged him on the chin. A full, powerful swing. Phin’s head snapped back and he lay still. Swiftly Kilkenny tied his hands and feet, then went to work to free Cain. A quick examination showed no bones broken but the man was frightfully bruised and skinned. Moreover, he seemed to have lost blood from a scratch or cut in his side. Stopping, Kilkenny rifted the big man on his shoulders and started for the gray. The load was almost too much for the gray, for between them they made a weight of over four hundred pounds, but there was no hope for it. Returning the way he had come, the gray stayed with it beautifully, but when they reached Whiskers Draw, Kilkenny swung down and walked ahead, leading the horse. He might have made the attempt to get Phin’s horse but had been afraid somebody from the ranch would see him up on the bank, and had not dared to take a chance as Phin had been wearing a brilliantly red shirt that could not have been mistaken.
It was slow going and hot, but he made it back to the cottonwoods. Cain Brockman rolled in the saddle, his huge body swaying to the moves of the horse. His face was gray and his eyes glazed over. Worriedly, Kilkenny spoke to him and there was no answer. The big man was sitting there by sheer will and animal strength. He might be injured internally—Kilkenny crept to the top of the bank and looked around. Far away, several miles off now, he could see the lone horse standing where Phin had left it. How long before that horse would attract attention and investigation? Or how long before Phin would get free? It was almost noon, of course, and the hands might be eating. There was no more than another hour before the pursuit would begin, for they would notice Phin’s absence and if they saw his horse, it would immediately draw them to it. What Cain needed was a doctor, but it was all of five miles to Horsehead from their present position and the last two miles would be across open country. There was no hope for it but to conceal him here and hope for the best. Alone, he could run for it, but the gray could never carry that weight over a fast run nor could Kilkenny keep the dead weight of the now unconscious man in the saddle before him.