Joe Widbee stopped his horse and watched the posse winding its slow way through the narrow valley below him, picking its way carefully through the strewn boulders. He pulled gloves over his hands and tied his bandanna tightly over the lower part of his face. If they saw his black skin, it would be a giveaway. There was only one Negro in these hills who could have the motive to shoot at them.
The posse were going steadily east. Mart was travelling slowly now. Maybe they would catch up with him in a few hours. Half a day at least. He had tried slowing them with a fall of rock and with two attacks with his rifle. He reckoned he hadn’t delayed them for more than an hour. This time he must be serious. And as Mart was against him shooting men unless he had to, he would have to shoot horses. Maybe some of them would get the message then. If they went on, men would die.
The idea of shooting horses didn’t sit too well with Joe. His experience of the human race had led him to a preference for horses.
He started down toward the lower ground, checking the loads in his rifle. None of the posse saw or heard him. Not because he was being cautious, but because none of the posse looked that way and Pete Yewdley was most likely ‘way out ahead.
Joe hit the flat, trotted his horse forward and came in clear sight of the riders.
He halted his horse, fired a shot over their heads and waited. As he hoped and expected, they halted and turned. The rearmost man brought his horse around side-on to Joe. That gave the Negro the target he wanted. He put his rifle to his shoulder and fired. It was a long shot and a lesser man could not have made it. The bullet took the horse through the head, the animal sank to its knees and gently tumbled its rider over its neck. The horse kicked so frantically in its death throes that it kicked the rider before he managed to scramble clear. Joe had thought that he would have had time for a second shot, but he did not. He underestimated the quality of the men there. Before he could jack a second round into his rifle, two riders jumped their horses forward and came at him on the run. They had no sooner swept past the dying horse, than two more riders were on the move.
Joe, who believed in live cowards and had little admiration for dead heroes, turned his horse in some haste and beat a retreat. His horse also felt the urgency of the moment, for Joe no sooner touched it with his quirt than it got its legs under it and ran with a will. But its will and ability was not quite enough. There were a couple of men back there with some good horseflesh between their legs. They were coming on hard and fast and Joe knew that if he didn’t do something pretty smart pretty soon they would be running him into the ground in two-three miles. This didn’t suit his plans at all. He ran on for a mile, choose his spot and turned abruptly left and made for high ground. The motto being that, if you can’t win a race, don’t run it.
Somewhat to his dismay when he looked back he saw that the foremost rider, instead of being daunted by the steep slope, was coming on stronger than ever. To convince Joe that the situation was not as bright as he would have liked, the man fired from the saddle of the climbing horse and missed by no more than a few inches. That could have been a fluke. It could also mean that the man knew how to use a gun.
Again Joe dodged to the right, gained the cover of a large boulder, turned his horse and took a shot back at the rider. He hit the horse. The animal stood on its hind legs, the rider jumped clear and the horse went over backward and rolled over and over down the hillside.
Shaken though he must have been, the rider, from where he lay, sent such a concentrated fire up at Joe that he was warned that he would not increase his health by staying in that neighborhood. He decided to retire and rode on up the hill. The man poured lead after him and hastened him on his way.
Joe found better cover at the top of the ridge and hastily dismounted. He could see now that the other men who had ridden back were now dismounted and were starting to work their way up the hillside on foot, rifles in hand. More of the posse were on their way back. Joe was pretty content. Although the situation was not all that he could have desired from his point of view, he had at least gained a short respite for Mart. Maybe now there would be time for him to have his wound fixed and for him to head deep into the hills and lose the posse.
He knew that his position was not a strong one. There was good cover up here for one man. There was also enough to go around for a dozen. That posse, once it had collected itself, would surround him and come at him loaded for bear. If he allowed that, it would without little doubt, be the end of Joe Widbee.
He stayed for some fifteen minutes on that ridge-top, keeping up a heavy fire to show that he was in earnest, then, finding that he was running short of ammunition, decided that it was high time that he made himself scarce. Accordingly, he backed away down the far side of the ridge, collected his horse and led him as quietly as he could away.
He headed home. He longed for some of his own good cooking.
He thought about Mart. He had found himself a pretty good woman there. Joe wondered... It was time Mart settled down. That wild type always settled more firmly than the quiet ones once they made up their minds they were well and truly caught.