"You're goin',
an' you're goin' right this minute--or I'm goin' to bust you in the
eye!"
"Well, if you put it that way," grimly grinned Shorty.
He crawled out of the depression, threw himself upon his horse and raced
southeastward, yelling, and waving his hat defiantly at the outlaws, who
were shooting at him. But the speed of Shorty's horse was too great for
accurate shooting; and Shorty kept going--waving his hat for a time, and
then, when out of range, riding hard--seeming to glide like a shadow
into the yawning gulf of distance.
The depression into which Blackburn and his men had crept was not more
than three or four feet deep, with long, sloping sides which were
covered with alkali and rotted rock. Along the edges grew greasewood and
mesquite bushes, which afforded concealment but not protection. The
shallow was wide enough for the horses, though the men were forced to
throw the animals and stake their heads down, so that they would not
show themselves above the edge of the depression and thus become targets
for the outlaws.
The firing during the night was intermittent. Once the outlaws made an
attempt to withdraw, rushing concertedly toward their horses, which they
had concealed in a sand draw slightly behind them, southward. But
Blackburn and his men were alert.
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