The road ahead was clear, except for the speeding cowboys, and the marshal made extremely quick work of them.  There was a fusillade of shots, and when these ended, one rider was down in the dust, the other galloping madly away, lying flat on his pony, with no purpose but to get out of range.  The two fugitives plunged into the bushes opposite, taking the roughest but most direct course to where the rather precipitous banks dropped off to the stream below.  There was a dam a half mile down, and even at this point the water was wide and deep enough to make any attempt at crossing dangerous.  But half-way over an upheaval of rock parted the current, forcing the swirling waters to either side, and presenting a stern grey face to the shore.  The marshal, pausing for nothing, flung himself bodily down the steep bank, unclasping his belt, as he half ran, half rolled to the bottom.

“Here, take these cartridges,” he said, “and hold ’em up.  Save yer own, too, fer we’re going to need ’em.  That water out thar is plumb up to my neck.  Come on now; keep them things dry, an’ don’t bother ’bout me.”

He plunged in, and Westcott followed, both cartridge belts held above his head.  There was a crackling of bushes on the bank behind them, showing their pursuers had crossed the road and were already beating up the brush.  Neither man glanced back, assured that those fellows would hunt them first in the chaparral, cautiously beating the coverts, before venturing beyond.

The water deepened rapidly, and Westcott was soon to his waist, leaning to his right to keep his feet; he heard the marshal splashing along behind, convinced by his ceaseless profanity that he also made progress in spite of his shortness of limbs.  Indeed they attained the rock shelter almost together, creeping up through a narrow crevasse, leaving a wet trail along the grey stone.  This was accomplished none too soon, a yell from the bank telling of their discovery, followed by the crack of a gun.  The marshal, who was still exposed, hastily crept under cover, wiping a drop of blood from his cheek where a splinter of rock dislodged by the bullet had slashed the flesh.  He was, nevertheless, in excellent humour, his keen grey eyes laughing, as he peered out over the rock rampart.

“If they keep up shootin’ like that, Jim, I reckon our insurance won’t be high,” he said, “I’m plumb ashamed of the camp, the way them boys waste lead.  Must ‘a’ took twenty shots at us so far an’ only skinned me with a rock.  Hell! ‘tain’t even interestin’.  Hand over them cartridges; let’s see what sorter stock we got.”

CHAPTER XXII:  THE ROCK IN THE STREAM

Westcott was sensible now of a feeling of intense exhaustion.  The fierce fighting in the room behind the saloon; the excitement of the attempt to escape; the chase, ending with the plunge through the stream had left him pitifully weak.  He could perceive his hand tremble as he handed over the cartridge belt.  The marshal noticed it also, and cast a swift glance into the other’s face.