Before they reached the depression, however, there had come
more white puffs of smoke from the space ahead of them, and Blackburn
saw two Circle L men slide from their horses with a finality that
brought a savage glare into his eyes.
"Shorty," he said, hoarsely, to the big man at his side--who had
wriggled behind a rock at the crest of the depression and was coldly and
deliberately using the rifle he had taken from the holster on his
saddle; "we've got to have help--them scum outnumber us. You've got the
fastest horse an' you're the best rider in the bunch. An' you've got the
most sense. Barthman's ranch is the nearest, an' he's got fifteen men.
You hit the breeze over there an' tell him what's happened. Tell him
we're whipped if he don't help us. An' tell him to send a rider to
Corts, an' Littlefield, an' Sigmund, an' Lester, an' Caldwell. Tell 'em
to take that trail leadin' to Kinney's canon--this side. That's where
they're headin' the cattle to. They'll come a-rushin', for they like the
boss.
"There's forty men in that gang that's hidin' ahead of us, tryin' to
wipe us out. But if they was a hundred we could keep 'em from makin' any
time, an' if you'll burn the breeze some, you can have Barthman an' the
others at the trail near Kinney's canon before these guys get there!"
"Hell's fire, Blackburn," protested Shorty; "ain't there somebody else
can ride a damned horse? I'm aimin' to salivate some of them skunks!"
"Orders is orders, Shorty," growled Blackburn, coldly.
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