doubted it. Farther up he would have a better view of the trail where it curved around the growth, following the bend of the river. Slade slowed his pace to a crawl, careful to snap no twig, to step on no dry branch, to move no stone.
The sun was close to the western horizon now and it was already gloomy under the thick growth. The hush of evening had descended, broken only by the sleepy chirps of birds. Slade strained his eyes to pierce the deepening shadows, and he began to believe that his thorny ride and stalk had been for nothing; there was naught to be seen, nothing to be heard. Looked very much like the killer had hightailed. Instinctively he quickened his gait a little.
Then abruptly he halted to stand rigid. From nearby had come a sound, faint and musical, the jingle of a bit iron as a horse tossed its head. The devil was still there!
But blast it! where was “there?” Must be close, unpleasantly close. Had he been spotted creeping down the slope? Was the muzzle of a gun swinging in his direction, eyes glinting along the sights? A nice thought! He stood tense and motionless, his glance probing the shadows ahead, bleday, N.Y., 1948. drew a breath of relief as nothing happened. He risked another forward step, and saw the drygulcher.
He was lounging against the trunk of a small tree, less than half a dozen paces distant, his eyes fixed on the trail below. Slade’s pulses leaped exultantly; he had the hellion “settin’!” Take him alive and perhaps force him to talk. He drew his right-hand gun, glided forward another step. His lips opening as if to speak, he sensed rather than saw movement to his right. There were two of the devils!
Sideways and down he went. A gun blazed and the slug whipped through the crown of his hat. He fired at the flash, rolled over and over. The drygulcher by the tree whirled with a yell of alarm. Bullets stormed from two directions, kicking up spurts of dust, fanning his face with their deadly breath. He shot as fast as he could pull trigger, left and right, left and right!
A gurlging scream knifed through the uproar, the thud of a falling body and a wild thrashing about. Slade whirled over on his side, saw the second killer looming huge and distorted in the gloom, almost over him. He fired point-blank, tried to surge erect. Something crashed against his skull and the world exploded in flame and roaring sound, and a cyclone-rush of blackness.
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