Cheyenne straightened in the saddle and glanced back through the timber.  He saw a jumble of men and horses in front of the cabin.  “They got just two hosses handy, and they’re rode down,” he muttered as he sped through the shadows of the forest.

Across another sun-swept meadow he rode, and into the timber again—­and before he realized it he was back on the mountain trail that led to the valley.  He took the first long, easy grade on the run, checked at the switchback, and pounded down the succeeding grade, still under cover of the hillside timber, but rapidly nearing the more open country of brush and rock.

As he reined in at the second switchback he saw, far below, and going at a lively trot, seven or eight horses, and behind them, hazing them along as fast as the trail would permit, Little Jim.

“If Sneed’s outfit gets to the rim before he makes the next turn, they’ll get him sure,” reasoned Cheyenne.

He thought of turning back and trying to stop Sneed’s men.  He thought of turning his horse loose and ambushing the mountainmen, afoot.  But Cheyenne did not want to kill.  His greatest fear was that Little Jim might get hurt.  As he hesitated, a rifle snarled from the rim above, and he saw Little Jim’s horse flinch and jump forward.

“I reckon it’s up to us, old Steel Dust,” he said to his horse.

Hoping to draw the fire of the men above, he eased his horse round the next bend and then spurred him to a run.  Below, Little Jim was jogging along, within a hundred yards or so of the bend that would screen him from sight.  Realizing that he could never make the next turn on the run, Cheyenne gripped with his knees, and leaned back to meet the shock as Steel Dust plunged over the end of the turn and crashed through the brush below.  A slug whipped through the brush and clipped a twig in front of the horse.

Steel Dust swerved and lunged on down through the heavy brush.  A naked creek-bed showed white and shimmering at the bottom of the slope.  Again a slug whined through the sunlight and Cheyenne’s hat spun from his head and settled squarely on a low bush.  It was characteristic of Cheyenne that he grabbed for his hat—­and got it as he dashed past.

“Keep the change,” said Cheyenne as he ducked beneath a branch and straightened up again.  He was almost to the creek-bed, naked to the sunlight, and a bad place to cross with guns going from above.  He pulled up, slipped from his horse, and slapped him on the flank.

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.