n this gulch back of the ridge. We met 'em on
the summit and drove 'em back. I judge they've had a-plenty. We'll rout
'em out soon now."

A brisk fire went on steadily between the Utes in the gulch and the
whites on the ridge. Every man had found such cover as he could, but the
numbers on both sides made it impossible for all to remain wholly hidden.
The casualties among the troopers had been, however, very light since the
first disastrous rush over the bluff.

Dud caught Harshaw's arm. "Look!" he cried, keenly excited.

A man had emerged from the bushes and was running across the flat toward
the ridge. Dud and Tom had kept well away toward the foothills, not out
of range of the Utes, but far enough distant to offer poor targets. But
this man was running the gauntlet of a heavy fire close enough to be an
easy mark. Blanco valley settlers, expert marksmen from much big-game
hunting, would have dropped the runner before he had covered thirty
yards. But the Indians were armed with cheap trade guns and were at best
poor shots. The runner kept coming.

Those on the ridge watched him, their pulses quick, their nerves taut.
For he was running a race with death. Every instant they expected to see
him fall. From the bushes jets of smoke puffed like toy balloons
continuously.

"Fire where you see the smoke, boys," Harshaw shouted.

The rangers and militia concentrated on the fringe of shrubbery. At least
they could make it hot enough for the Indians to disturb their aims.

"He's down!" groaned Hollister.

He was, but in a second he was up once more, still running strong. He had
stumbled over a root. The sage was heavy here. This served as a partial
screen for the swiftly moving man. Every step now was carrying him
farther from the sharpshooters, bringing him closer to the ridge.

"By Godfrey, he'll make it!" Harshaw cried.

It began to look that way. The bullets were still falling all around him,
but he was close to the foot of the ridge.

Dud made a discovery. "It's Bob Dillon!" he shouted. Then, to the runner,
with all his voice, "Keep a-comin', Red Haid!"

The hat had gone from the red head. As he climbed the slope the runner
was laboring heavily. Dud ran down the hill to meet him, half a dozen
others at his heels, among them Blister. They caught the spent youth
under the arms and round the body. So he reached the crest.

Blister's fat arms supported him as his body swayed. The wheezy voice of
the justice trembl