XXVI The Dust Settles
Lance glanced in sudden dismay at the white men on the gallery. Their faces reflected the hopeless thought in his own mind. He snapped grimly, “Get ready for a lot of hell, fellers! We can’t let him go it alone.”
But the Yaquentes on the gallery had already reached that decision. Wild, joyful, bloodcurdling yells left their throats as they leaped erect and vaulted over the sandbags, eager to catch up with the professor, in the belief that Jones was leading them in a charge against the enemy!
This was what Lance’s Yaquentes wanted, the sort of action for which they had been impatiently waiting. Straight into a hailstone of fire they moved like some relentless, avenging juggernaut. For just an instant Lance stood as one paralyzed by the sight of the white-clothed forms, their guns spurting lances of flame as they shouted wild battle cries and closed in toward the enemy. Then Lance moved. “C’mon, waddies,” he yelled, “we can’t let the Yaquentes get there first!”
Wild cowboy yells sounded above the rattle of gunfire as the men followed Lance from the gallery. Bullets were whining like angry bees through the air, but the enemy was momentarily unsettled by the unexpected charge, and its aim was none too good. Lance and his men fanned out to cover a wide area, shooting as they ran. Here and there Lance saw a Yaquente drop, but the majority charged on in the direction taken by the professor who had, by this time, disappeared among the brush and trees.
Lance sprinted swiftly in the direction of the wagon from which the tin-can bombs had been hurled. Two men crouched in its shelter. One of them was lifting a can to throw in the midst of the Yaquentes who had just charged past. Lance flipped his six-shooter to one side, shooting by instinct rather than aim. He saw the man drop the can and pitch to the earth. A moment later, as he ran on, he heard a tremendous explosion from the direction of the wagon.
“Good work, Lance!” Oscar shouted, running a few feet from Lance’s side.
They plunged into the brush together. All around them guns were cracking and roaring. Once or twice, through the trees, Lance caught glimpses of fleeing forms. The enemy was retreating toward a nest of rocks some distance farther on. Some of them were already there, shaking lead out of their gun muzzles.
Lance shouted to Oscar, “We’ve got ’em on the run anyway!”
The fighting raged in and out among the trees. Lockwood and Lanky weren’t far from Lance and Oscar now. They were making every shot count. Abruptly Lance and Oscar rounded a high clump of prickly pear and nearly ran into the professor. Lance heaved a long sigh of relief. Miraculously he was so far unwounded.
“Well, don’t stand there gaping at me like a dummy,” Jones yelled angrily. “Can’t you see I’m out of ammunition? Give me some cartridges!”
Lance handed him some cartridges from a pocket. Jones feverishly commenced to shove loads into his cylinder. “Took you long enough to get here,” he grunted, “but we’ve sure forced ’em back. Took ’em—by surprise —y’understand.” He gestured toward a low, rock-covered ridge lifting above the brush. “Most of ’em—retreated up there. If we can—only dislodge ’em—we got ’em—licked, by Christopher! Come on!”
They hadn’t taken more than a half a dozen steps when Lance stumbled and plunged into a small ditch cut by the runoff of the rainy season. He started to rise, then, warned by a sudden noise, glanced around. Two of the enemy were cowering there, swarthy-faced, brutal-looking men who had been taken by surprise when the Three- Cross attacked. Then Lance’s eyes opened wider. The two men had already thrown down their guns and were holding their hands in the air. But that wasn’t what caught and held Lance’s attention. He raised his voice in a sudden yell to Oscar and the professor who hadn’t stopped to wait for Lance. “Hey, Oscar! Professor! Wait! Look what I found!”
Oscar and the professor turned and came running back. Lance pointed. The professor gave one wild shout of unholy glee. He took in the supply of powder, chunks of rock, fuses, tin cans, with which the two men had been manufacturing bombs. At one side was a stacked pile of bombs ready for lighting.
“Now we’ve got ’em!” Lance yelled. He thrust matches into the hands of the two prisoners. “You light ’em; we throw ’em,” he ordered. “Otherwise we’ll be plugging you—savvy?”
Whether the two Indians understood the words or not, they at least caught the idea—and they obeyed.
That was really the beginning of the end. The Indians struck matches. Lance, Oscar and the professor held fuses to the flame and then exercised their throwing arms. Tin-can bombs went hurtling through the air to land in the nest of rocks on the ridge.
Abruptly the ridge commenced to erupt men. They scattered in all directions, voicing wild, frantic cries. Lockwood and Lanky came plunging through the brush, eyes wide with astonishment.
“What’s going on here?” Lockwood demanded. Then as he saw the depleted pile of bombs he caught the idea, and he and Lanky went into action. By this time the gunfire had fallen off considerably.
“We’ve got ’em licked!” Lance yelled triumphantly. “Get Horatio and his men to round up the prisoners— what’s left of ’em——”
He paused suddenly. Through the trees he had caught sight of a man making a getaway on horse back. Fletcher! Without stopping to explain, Lance leaped in swift pursuit. He fought his way through a tangle of brush to a small clearing. Several horses were tethered there Lance picked out a likely-looking buckskin, gathered up its reins and vaulted to the saddle. Plunging in his spurs, he got under way.
It was slow going for a few minutes, dodging mesquite and prickly-pear clumps. Then suddenly the way opened. He was on the road that led to Muletero. Of Fletcher there was no sign.
Lance gave the buckskin the spurs again. The horse responded nobly, leaping out in great space-devouring strides. The wind whipped into Lance’s face. Prickly pear, mesquite, yucca flowed past on either side with a panoramic monotony. The buckskin was giving all it had now. Lance patted its neck in admiration. “By cripes, horse! You’re a goer!” They speeded on, mile after mile.
Suddenly Lance saw the houses of Muletero. A cloud of dust moving swiftly through the town caught his eye. Fletcher! The man was riding hard in a final desperate attempt to escape. Once he glanced back and saw Lance in speedy pursuit. Lance saw Fletcher’s arm rise and fall as he beat his horse over the head in an effort to draw more speed from the beast.
“Damn skunk,” Lance muttered. “That’s no way to treat a horse that’s trying to help you.”
He caught a glimpse of houses and open-mouthed Mexicans as he flashed through Muletero. That was about all he saw of the town, then he was in open country again. That dust cloud being kicked up ahead wasn’t so far away now.
Suddenly Fletcher turned in his saddle. Lance crouched low. He heard the sharp whine of a bullet past his ears, saw the white flash of fire. Again Fletcher unleashed his lead and again he missed. Lance was rapidly closing the distance between them now. He saw Fletcher reach to his cartridge belt and judged the man was reloading.
“I’d sure like to take you alive, mister,” Lance grunted. He glanced down at the lariat on his saddle. It was of rawhide. Lance preferred Manila hemp, but rawhide would have to do. He grasped the lariat and commenced to shake out a loop, meanwhile urging his pony to greater efforts as he swiftly closed in on the fleeing rider.
Twice the loop circled about Lance’s head, each time widening in size. Abruptly he released his cast, made his dally about the saddle horn and watched the rope sail through the air. “Straight and true for Fletcher’s head,” Lance thought. “It will probably get him around the shoulders.” At the same instant, turning to throw another shot at Lance, Fletcher saw the rope dropping swiftly through the air. He twisted to one side in an effort to dodge it. The loop settled and tightened about the neck of Fletcher’s horse.
Instantly, true to its training, the buckskin pony stiffened its legs, dug in its hoofs in a long, sliding halt that sent sand and gravel flying in all directions. The rope went taut, tightening about the neck of Fletcher’s horse and stopping the beast so suddenly all four hoofs left the earth as it crashed down. Fletcher had already loosened his feet from stirrups and landed, catlike, running toward Lance, his right hand spitting smoke and flame.
Lance swung down from the saddle. He fired. Missed. Two bullets from Fletcher’s gun came dangerously close, the second one cutting the neckerchief below Lance’s left ear.
Even as Lance thumbed a second shot from his six-shooter he was thinking, “My God! The man’s fast!” He
