that in spite of
his paralyzing horror he meant to stick where he was.

Dinsmore's lip curled cruelly. He hesitated. This boy was the only
witness against him. Why not make a clean job of it and wipe him out
too? He fired--and missed; Pete was not an expert left-hand shot.

"Look out, Pete. Men comin' down the road," called the other Dinsmore
from the gate of the corral.

Pete looked and saw two riders approaching. It was too late now to make
sure of Wadley or to silence the wrangler. He shoved his revolver back
into its place and swung to the saddle.

"Was it you shot Wadley?" he asked his brother.

"Yep, an none too soon. He was reachin' for his six-shooter."

"The fool would have it. Come, let's burn the wind out of here before a
crowd gathers."

Gurley and a fourth man joined them. The four galloped down the road and
disappeared in a cloud of white dust.

A moment later Jumbo Wilkins descended heavily from his horse. Quint
Sullivan, another rider for the A T O, was with him.

The big line-rider knelt beside his employer and examined the wound.
"Hit once--in the side," he pronounced.

"Will--will he live?" asked the white-faced stableboy.

"Don't know. But he's a tough nut, Clint is. He's liable to be cussin'
out the boys again in a month or two."

Wadley opened his eyes. "You're damn' whistlin', Jumbo. Get me to my
sister's."

Quint, a black-haired youth of twenty, gave a repressed whoop. "One
li'l' bit of a lead pill can't faze the boss. They took four or five
cracks at him an' didn't hit but once. That's plumb lucky."

"It would 'a' been luckier if they hadn't hit him at all, Quint,"
answered Jumbo dryly. "You fork yore hawss, son, an' go git Doc
Bridgman. An' you--whatever they call you, Mr. Hawss--rustler--harness a
team to that buckboard."

Jumbo, with the expertness of an old-timer who had faced emergencies of
this kind before, bound up the wound temporarily. The stable-rustler
hitched a team, covered the bottom of the buckboard with hay, and helped
Wilkins lift the wounded man to it.

Clint grinned faintly at the white-faced boy beside him. A flicker of
recognition lighted his eyes. "You look like you'd seen a ghost, Ridley.
Close call for both of us, eh? Lucky that Ranger plugged Dinsmore in the
shootin' arm. Pete's no two-gun man. Can't shoot for sour apples with
his left hand. Kicked up dust all around us, an' didn't score once."

"Quit yore talkin', Clint," ordered Jumbo.

"All rig