The Rangeland Avenger | Page 2

back and forth between his eyes and the target to make
ready for a snap shot.
"Ready!" cried Hal Sinclair excitedly.
Lowrie's gun spoke first, and it was the only one that was fired, for
Sinclair's horse was gun-shy indeed. At the explosion he pitched
straight into the air with a squeal of mustang fright and came down
bucking. The others forgot to look for the results of Lowrie's shot. They
reined their horses away from the pitching broncho disgustedly.
Sinclair was a fool to use up the last of his mustang's strength in this

manner. But Hal Sinclair had forgotten the journey ahead. He was
rioting in the new excitement cheering the broncho to new exertions.
And it was in the midst of that flurry of action that the great blow fell.
The horse stuck his right forefoot into a hole.
To the eyes of the others it seemed to happen slowly. The mustang was
halted in the midst of a leap, tugged at a leg that seemed glued to the
ground, and then buckled suddenly and collapsed on one side. They
heard that awful, muffled sound of splintering bone and then the
scream of the tortured horse.
But they gave no heed to that. Hal Sinclair in the fall had been pinned
beneath his mount. The huge strength of Quade sufficed to budge the
writhing mustang. Lowrie and Sandersen drew Sinclair's pinioned right
leg clear and stretched him on the sand.
It was Lowrie who shot the horse.
"You've done a brown turn," said Sandersen fiercely to the prostrate
figure of Sinclair. "Four men and three hosses. A fine partner you are,
Sinclair!"
"Shut up," said Hal. "Do something for that foot of mine."
Lowrie cut the boot away dexterously and turned out the foot. It was
painfully twisted to one side and lay limp on the sand.
"Do something!" said Sinclair, groaning.
The three looked at him, at the dead horse, at the white-hot desert, at
the distant, blue mountains.
"What the devil can we do? You've spoiled all our chances, Sinclair."
"Ride on then and forget me! But tie up that foot before you go. I can't
stand it!"
Silently, with ugly looks, they obeyed. Secretly every one of the three
was saying to himself that this folly of Sinclair's had ruined all their
chances of getting free from the sands alive. They looked across at the
skull of the steer. It was still there, very close. It seemed to have grown
larger, with a horrible significance. And each instinctively put a man's
skull beside it, bleached and white, with shadow eyes. Quade did the
actual bandaging of Sinclair's foot, drawing tight above the ankle, so
that some of the circulation was shut off; but it eased the pain, and now
Sinclair sat up.
"I'm sorry," he said, "mighty sorry, boys!"
There was no answer. He saw by their lowered eyes that they were

hating him. He felt it in the savage grip of their hands, as they lifted
him and put him into Quade's saddle. Quade was the largest, and it was
mutely accepted that he should be the first to walk, while Sinclair rode.
It was accepted by all except Quade, that is to say. That big man strode
beside his horse, lifting his eyes now and then to glare remorselessly at
Sinclair.
It was bitter work walking through that sand. The heel crunched into it,
throwing a strain heavily on the back of the thigh, and then the ball of
the foot slipped back in the midst of a stride. Also the labor raised the
temperature of the body incredibly. With no wind stirring it was
suffocating.
And the day was barely beginning!
Barely two hours before the sun had been merely a red ball on the edge
of the desert. Now it was low in the sky, but bitterly hot. And their
mournful glances presaged the horror that was coming in the middle of
the day.
Deadly silence fell on that group. They took their turns by the watch,
half an hour at a time, walking and then changing horses, and, as each
man took his turn on foot, he cast one long glance of hatred at Sinclair.
He was beginning to know them for the first time. They were chance
acquaintances. The whole trip had been undertaken by him on the spur
of the moment; and, as far as lay in his cheery, thoughtless nature, he
had come to regret it. The work of the trail had taught him that he was
mismated in this company, and the first stern test was stripping the
masks from them. He saw three ugly natures, three small, cruel souls.
It came Sandersen's turn to walk.
"Maybe I could take a turn walking," suggested Sinclair.
It was