the ground, he squirmed from clump to boulder, from hummock to bush.
Thirty feet from the nearest building, he ran out of places to hide. I thought he would scout the buildings from that point, and then come back. Instead, he jumped up and sprinted to the shelter of the nearest building.
Nothing happened. He crouched against the wall for several long minutes, and then began to work his way toward the rear.
A hatless Mexican came around the corner.
I couldn’t make out his features, but I saw his body stiffen.
His hand went to his waist.
Milk River’s gun flashed.
The Mexican dropped. The bright steel of his knife glittered high over Milk River’s head, and rang when it landed on a stone.
Milk River went out of my sight around the building. When I saw him again he was charging at the black doorway of the second building.
Fire-streaks came out of the door to meet him.
I did what I could with the two rifles—laying a barrage ahead of him—pumping lead at the open door, as fast as I could get it out. I emptied the second rifle just as he got too close to the door for me to risk another shot.
Dropping the rifle, I ran back to my horse, and rode to my crazy assistant’s assistance.
He didn’t need any. It was all over when I arrived.