The pony leaped forward, dashed across the creek-bed, and cut into the
trail beyond. A bullet flattened to a silver splash on a boulder.
Another bullet shot a spurt of sand into the air. Cheyenne crouched
tense, and then made a rush. A slug sang past his head. Heat palpitated
in the narrow draw. He gained the opposite bank, dropped, and crawled
through the brush and lay panting, close to the trail. From above him
somewhere came the note of a bird: _Chirr-up! Chirr-up!_ Again a slug
tore through the brush scattering twigs and tiny leaves on Cheyenne's
hat.

"That one didn't say, 'Cheer up!'" murmured Cheyenne.

When he had caught his breath he crawled out and into the narrow trail.
The shooting had ceased. Evidently the men were riding. Stepping round
the shoulder of the next bend, he peered up toward the rim of the range.
A tiny figure appeared riding down the first long grade, and then
another figure. Turning, he saw his own horse quietly nipping at the
grass in the crevices of the rocks along the trail.

He walked down to the horse slowly and caught him up. Loosening his
carbine from the scabbard, and deeming himself lucky to have it, after
that wild ride down the mountain, he stepped back to the angle of the
bend, rested the carbine against a rocky shoulder and dropped a shot in
front of the first rider, who stopped suddenly and took to cover.

"That'll hold 'em for a spell," said Cheyenne, stepping back. He mounted
and rode on down the trail, eyeing the tracks of the horses that Little
Jim was hazing toward the valley below. Cheyenne shook his head. "He's
done run off the whole dog-gone outfit! There's nothin' stingy about
that kid."