LITMIR.BIZ

CHAPTER I

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THE MYSTERIOUS SNIPER

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      "A pity Kiddie ain't here along of us, to help. He'd sure tell us if thar's Injuns prowlin' around. My old eyes ain't just what they used ter be for spottin' a crawlin' Redskin from afar. Now, Kiddie had eyes like spy-glasses, hadn't he, Isa? As for his sense of hearin'—well, I allow he c'd 'most hear the grass a-growin'."

      Old Man Birkenshaw was peering searchingly through the dim light of the early dawn, expecting at any moment to see the feathered head of a stealthy Indian warrior moving among the deep shadows. From where he lay on the dewy grass beside the crowded horse-corral, with his repeating rifle across his arm, he searched into the darkness of the larch woods and down the misty slopes to the thick line of bushes bordering the hidden creek.

      "Yes," he went on, speaking in a cautious undertone, "Kiddie was a marvel."

      "That's so," agreed the man stationed next to him, "a marvel for scoutin', he was. Like a cat, too."

      "A cat?"

      "Yes," Isa Blagg nodded, "allus fell on his feet, didn't he? He allus came out on top. I never knew such a one fer turnin' up right on the spot whenever there was danger hangin' around."

      "Wonder where he is now?" sighed Gideon Birkenshaw.

      "Why, away in England, of course," drawled Isa. "In England without a doubt, occupyin' that thar comfortable seat of his in the House of Lords, wearin' a gold coronet an' a gold watch an' chain, an' a robe trimmed round with ermine skins; livin' in the grand style with all them high an' mighty aristocratic friends of his; never givin' a thought ter this yer camp here in the wilds of Wyoming, or to Laramie Peak, or to you, or to me."

      "Mebbe so—mebbe so," mused Gideon. "I allow it's a long, long while since I'd a letter from him—not since that time when he sent me the Arab mare. Seems as if he'd clean forgotten me, though I never reckoned as Kiddie would ever forget. He ain't that sort."

      "Hullo!" Isa Blagg was suddenly alert. "What's that? Listen! D'ye hear it, Gid—a horse gallopin' along the trail—comin' this way? Listen!"

      The two men lay perfectly still and silent. From afar they could hear the unmistakable sound of a horse's hoofs, becoming momentarily more distinct.

      "Injuns?" questioned Birkenshaw. He glanced about to assure himself that his men were all at their appointed posts.

      "No," Isa answered. "'Tain't no prairie cayuse. I c'n make out the ring of its shoes on the hard trail. 'Tain't the Pony Express, neither. Guess it's just one of the boys from Red Buttes comin' along in advance to lend us a neighbourly hand. We c'n do well with another gun, Gid—allowin' that young Rube Carter's information was correct; allowin' that Broken Feather and his braves are sure out on a horse raidin' stunt."

      "Young Rube ain't anyways liable to be in error in a serious case like this," Gideon assured his companion. "And if Broken Feather's shapin' ter steal horses, why, nat'rally he'll calculate on findin' what he covets right here—the best herd within fifty miles, ter say nothin' of that Arab mare, which he's had his eye on for a while back. No, Young Rube's warnin' ain't no false alarm. I'm figurin' that the Redskins are in ambush down there among the willows. It's likely they've been there all through the night. They'll attack before sunrise; and they'll approach by way of the hollow yonder, where they c'n tread quiet on the marshy ground."

      "Say, that rider's wastin' no time, Gid," Isa interrupted, "Guess he's in some hurry by the way he's poundin' along."

      "We ought ter catch a view of him as he gallops over the ridge," reflected Gideon. "Might even be Broken Feather himself. He's cute enough ter come along in disguise, ridin' a saddled pony that's decently shod."

      The old man raised himself on an elbow and glanced along the line of men whom he had posted at equal intervals behind the defence of a wide grassy bank commanding the front of the threatened horse corral. Next to himself was Isa Blagg, then Jake Paterson and Tom Lippincott. Between Lippincott and the man at the end station, Abe Harum, was young Rube Carter. There were six guns in all, not counting revolvers.

      Gideon beckoned to young Rube, and the boy crept cautiously towards him, treading softly in his moccasined feet, carrying his rifle under his arm and taking good cover.

      "Crawl down towards the shack, Rube, an' get a sight of the rider that's comin' along the trail," Gideon ordered. "Just see who he is as he tops the risin' ground, and then get right back to your place an' be ready ter open fire when I give the sign."

      Rube was not absent very long. When he returned he passed close behind the Boss, so silently that Gideon was not aware of his presence until a hand was pressed on his spurred heel.

      "He's a stranger, Boss," Rube reported in a whisper. "I don't reco'nize him, nor his pony neither. It don't look as he means comin' here to our camp, or he'd sure have turned in at the new gate."

      "Didn't hear him crossin' the wooden bridge," said Gideon, "and his mount ain't wearin' soft moccasins."

      "Seems to me he's come to a halt," added Isa Blagg.

      There was an anxious spell of silent, watchful waiting. No sound or movement betrayed the presence of marauding Indians, and already the clouds in the east had taken on the rosy tinge of daybreak.

      Gideon Birkenshaw was beginning to comfort himself in the belief that there would be no attack after all; that his horses were safe. He was even on the point of laying aside his Winchester and bidding his men return home with him for breakfast, when suddenly from the farther side of the corral there came the sharply startling ring of a rifle shot. It came from a direction in which none of his men had been stationed.

      "Who fired that shot?" he cried in wondering surprise. "Whose gun was it? Anybody know?"

      Abe Harum rose to his feet, and, bending his body forward, ran swiftly past the corral gate. Then he went down on his knees and elbows and crept along by the stout timbers of the stockade, screened by the long grass.

      The corral was built in a circle, and there were no corners or buttresses behind which he could conceal himself. Neither could he yet see anything of the man who had fired the shot. What he did see, when he had crept a few yards beyond the gate, was a crowd of Indians gathered close against the palisade. One of them was in the act of climbing over the sharp-pointed rails. Some seemed already to have dropped on the inner side, for the ponies were running about the enclosure in wild alarm.

      Abe levelled his rifle and fired at the Redskin now slinging a naked leg over the spikes.

      The shot missed its mark, and the

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