SURROUNDED

Above, a pale, hot sky with only a wisp of cloud; below, a semi-arid "pasture," scant in grass, seamed by tortuous gullies and studded with small, compact thickets and bulky bowlders. A wall of chaparral, appearing solid when viewed from a distance, fenced the pasture, and rising boldly from the southwest end of the clearing a towering mass of rock flung its rugged ramparts skyward. Nature had been in a sullen mood when this scene had been perpetrated and there was no need of men trying to heighten the gloomy aspect by killing each other. Yet they were trying and had been for a week, and they could have found no surroundings more in keeping with their occupation.

Minute clouds of smoke spurted from the top of the wall and from the many points of vantage on the pasture to hang wavering for an instant before lazily dissipating in the hot, close air. In such a sombre setting men had elected to joke and curse and kill, perhaps to die; men hot with passion and blood-lust plied rifles with deliberate intent to kill. On one side there was fierce deep joy, an exultation in forcing the issue, much as if they had tugged vainly at a leash and suddenly found themselves free. They had been baited, tricked, robbed, and fired upon and now, their tormentors penned before them, there would be no cessation in their efforts to wipe out the indignities under which they had chafed for so long a time.

On the other side, high up on a natural fortress which was considered impregnable, lay those who had brought this angry pack about them. There was no joy there, no glad eagerness to force the battle, no jokes nor laughter, but only a grim desperation, a tenacious holding to that which the others would try to take. On one side aggression; on the other, defence. Fighters all, they now were inspired by the merciless end always in their minds; they were trapped like rats and would fight while mind could lay a plan or move a muscle. Of the type which had out-roughed, out-fought for so long even the sturdy, rough men who had laid the foundation for an inland empire amid dangers superlative, they knew nothing of yielding; and to yield was to die. It was survivor against survivor in an even game.

"Ah, God!" moaned a man on the mesa's lofty rim, staggering back aimlessly before he fell, never to rise again. His companions regarded him curiously, stolidly, without sympathy, as is often the case where death is constantly expected. Dal Gilbert turned back to his rifle and the problems before him. "So you've gone, too. An' I reckon we'll follow"—such was Chet Bates' obituary.

In a thicket two hundred yards south of the mesa Red Connors worked the lever of his rifle, a frown on his face. "I got him, all right. Do you know who he is?"

"No; but I've seen him in Eagle," replied Hopalong, lowering the glasses. "What's worrying me is water—my throat's drying awful."

"You shouldn't 'a forgot it," chided Red. "Now we've got to go without it all day."

Hopalong ducked and swore as he felt of his bleeding face. "Purty close, that!"

"Mind what yo're doing!" replied Red. "Get off my hand."

"This scrap is shore slow," Hopalong growled. "Here we've been doing this for a whole week, all of us shot up, an' only got two of them fellers."

"Well, yo're right; but there ain't a man up there that ain't got a few bullet holes in him," Red replied. "But it is slow, that's shore."

"I've got to get a drink, an' that's all about it," Hopalong asserted. "I can crawl in that gully most of th' way, an' then trust a side-hopping dash. Anyhow, I'm tired of this place. Johnny's got th' place for me."

"You better stay here till it's dark, you fool."

"Aw, stay nothing—so long," and Hopalong, rifle in hand, crawled towards the gully. Red watched the mesa intently, hoping to be able to stop some of the firing his rash friend was sure to call forth.

Twenty minutes passed and then two puffs of smoke sailed against the sky, Red replying. Then half a dozen puffs burst into sight. A faint shout came to Red's ears and he smiled, for his friend was safe.

As Hopalong gained the chaparral he felt himself heartily kicked and, wheeling pugnaciously, looked into Buck Peters' scowling face. "Yo're a healthy fool!" growled the foreman. "Ain't you got no sense at all? Hereafter you flit over that pasture after dark, d'y hear!"

"He's th' biggest fool I ever saw, an' th' coolest," said a voice in the chaparral at the left.

"Why, hullo, Meeker," Hopalong laughed, turning from Buck. "How do you like our little party now?"

"I'm getting tired of it, an' it's some costly for me," grumbled the H2 foreman. "Bet them skunks in Eagle have cleaned out every head I owned." Then he added as an afterthought: "But I don't care a whole lot if I can see this gang wiped out—Antonio is th' coyote I'm itching to stop."

"He'll be stopped," replied Hopalong. "Hey, Buck, Red's shore thirsty."

"He can stay thirsty, then. An' don't you try to take no water to him. You stay off that pasture during daylight."

"But it was all my fault—" Hopalong began, and then he was off like a shot across the open, leaping gullies and dodging around bowlders.

"Here you!" roared Buck, and stopped to stare, Meeker at his side. A man was staggering in circles near a thicket which lay a hundred yards from them. He dropped and began to crawl aimlessly about, a good target for the eager rifles on the mesa. Bullets whined and shrilled and kicked up the dust on the plain, but still the rushing Bar-20 puncher was unhit. From the mesa came the faint crackling of rifle fire and clouds of smoke hovered over the cover sheltering Red Connors. Here and there over the pasture and along the chaparral's rim rifles cracked in hot endeavor to drive the rustlers from their positions long enough to save the reckless puncher. Buck and Meeker both were firing now, rapidly but carefully, muttering words of hope and anxiety as they worked the levers of their spurting guns. Then they saw Hopalong gain the prostrate man's side, drag him back to cover, and wave his arm. The fire from the mesa was growing weaker and as it stopped Hopalong, with the wounded man on his back, ran to the shelter of a gully and called for water.

"He's th' best man in this whole country!" cried Meeker, grabbing up a canteen and starting to go through the chaparral to give them water. "To do that for one of my men!"

"I've knowed that for nigh onto fifteen years," replied Buck.

Near the Eagle trail Billy Williams and Doc Riley lay side by side, friendly now.

"I tell you we've been shooting high," Doc grumbled. "It's no cinch picking range against that skyline."

"Hey! Look at Hopalong!" cried Billy, excitedly. "Blamed idiot—why, he's going out to that feller. Lord! Get busy!"

"That's Curtis out there!" ejaculated Doc, angrily. "They've got him, d—n 'em!"

"My gun's jammed!" cursed Billy, in his excitement and anger standing up to tear at the cartridge. "I allus go an'—" he pitched sideways to the sand, where he lay quiet.

Doc dropped his rifle and leaped to drag his companion back to the shelter of the cover. As he did so his left arm was hit, but he accomplished his purpose and as he reached for his canteen the Bar-20 pessimist saved him the trouble by opening his eyes and staring around. "Oh, my head! It's shore burning up, Doc!" he groaned. "What th' devil happened that time, anyhow?"

"Here; swaller this," Doc replied, handing him the canteen.

"Who got me?" asked Billy, laying the vessel aside.

"How do I know? Whoever he was he creased you nice. His friends got me in th' arm, too. You can help me fix it soon."

"Shore I will! We can lick them thieves, Doc," Billy expounded without much interest. "Yessir," he added.

"You make me tired," Doc retorted. "You talking about being careful when you stand up in plain sight of them fellers like you just did."

"Yes, I know. I was mad, an' sort of forgot about 'em being able to shoot at me—but what happened out there, anyhow?"

Doc craned his neck. "There's Cassidy now, in that gully—Meeker's just joined him. Good men, both of 'em."

"You bet," replied Billy, satisfied. "Yessir, we can lick 'em—we've got to."

On the west side of the mesa, back in the chaparral and out of sight of the rustlers, Pie Willis lay face down in the sand, quiet. Near him lay Frenchy McAllister, firing at intervals, aflame with anger and a desire to kill. Opposite him on the mesa, a scant three hundred yards away, two rustlers gloated and fired, eager to kill the other puncher, who shot so well.

"That other feller knows his business, Elder," remarked Nevada as a slug ricochetted past his head. "Wonder who he is."

"Wonder where he is," growled Elder, firing at a new place. "He's been shifting a lot. Anyhow, we got one. There's so much smoke down there I can't seem to place him. Mebby—" he fell back, limp, his rifle clattering down a hundred feet of rock.

Nevada looked at him closely and then drew back to a more secure position. "We're even, stranger, but we ain't quits, by a good deal!" He swore. Zing-ing-ing! "Oh, you know I moved, do you!" he gritted. "Well, how's that!" Spat! a new, bright leaden splotch showed on the rock above his head and hot lead stung his neck and face as the bullet spattered. "I'll get you yet, you coyote!" he muttered, changing his position again. "Ah, h—l!" he sobbed and dropped his rifle to grasp his right elbow, shattered by a Winchester .45. Pain shot through every fibre of his body and weakened him so he could not crawl for shelter or assistance. He swayed, lost his balance and swayed further, and as his side showed beyond the edge of his rocky rampart he quivered and sank back, helpless, pain-racked, and bleeding to death from two desperate wounds.

"We was—tricked—up here!" he moaned. "That must—be Red—Connors out there. Ah!" Spat! Chug! Spat! But Nevada did not hear them now.

Down in the chaparral, Frenchy, getting no response to his shots, picked up his glasses and examined the mesa. A moment later he put them back in the case, picked up his rifle and crawled towards his companion.

"Pie!" he called, touching the body. "Pie, old feller! I got 'em both for you, Pie—got 'em—" screened by the surrounding chaparral he stood up and shook a clenched fist at the sombre, smoke-wreathed pile of rock and shouted: "An' they won't be all! Do you hear, you thieves? They won't be all!"

Lying in a crack on the apex of a pinnacle of rock a hundred yards northwest of the mesa Johnny Nelson cursed the sun and squirmed around on the hot stone, vainly trying to find a spot comparatively cool, while two panic-stricken lizards huddled miserably as far back in the crack as they could force themselves. Long bright splotches marked the stone all around the youthful puncher and shrill whinings came to him out of the air, to hurtle away in the distance ten times as loud and high-pitched. For an hour he had not dared to raise his head to aim, and his sombrero, which he had used as a dummy, was shot full of holes. Johnny, at first elated because of his aerial position, now cursed it fervently and was filled with disgust. When he had begun firing at sunrise he had only one man to face. But the news went around among the rustlers that a fool had volunteered to be a target and now three good shots vied with each other to get the work over with quickly, and return to their former positions.

"I reckon I can squirm over th' edge an' drop down that split," Johnny soliloquized, eying a ragged, sharp edge in the rock close at hand. "Don't know where it goes to, or how far down, but it's cool, that's shore."

He wriggled over to it, flattened as much as possible, and looked over the edge, seeing a four-inch ledge ten feet below him. From the ledge it was ten feet more to the bottom, but the ledge was what interested him.

"Shore I can—just land on that shelf, hug th' wall an' they can't touch me," he grinned, slipping over and hanging for an instant until he stopped swinging. The rock bulged out between him and the ledge, but he did not give that any thought. Letting go he dropped down the face of the rock, shot out along the bulge and over his cherished ledge, and landed with a grunt on a mass of sand and debris twenty feet below. As he pitched forward to his hands he heard the metallic warning of a rattlesnake and all his fears of being shot were knocked out of his head by the sound. When he landed from his jump he was on the wrong side of the crevice and among hot lead. Ducking and dodging he worked back to the right side and then blew off the offending rattler's head with his Colt. Other rattlers now became prominent and Johnny, realizing that he was an unwelcome guest in a rattlesnake den, made good use of his eyes and Colt as he edged towards the mouth of the crevice. Behind him were rattlers; before him, rustlers who could and would shoot. To say that he was disgusted is to put it mildly.

"Cussed joint!" he grunted. "This is a measly place for me. If I stay I get bit to death; if I leave I get shot. Wonder if I can get to that ledge—ugh!" he cried as the tip of a rattler's tail hung down from it for an instant. "Come on! Bring 'em all out! Trot out th' tarantulas, copper heads, an' Gilas! Th' more th' merrier! Blasted snake hang-out!"

He glanced about him rapidly, apprehensively, and shivered. "No more of this for Little Johnny! I'll chance th' sharp-shooters," he yelled, and dashed out and around the pile so quickly as to be unhit. But he was not hit for another reason, also. Skinny Thompson and Pete Wilson, having grown restless, were encircling the mesa by keeping inside the chaparral and came opposite the pinnacle about the time Johnny discovered his reptilian neighbors. Hearing the noise they both stopped and threw their rifles to their shoulders. Here was a fine opportunity to lessen the numbers of the enemy, for the rustlers, careless for the moment, were peering over their breastwork to see what all the noise was about, not dreaming that two pairs of eyes three hundred yards away were calculating the range. Two puffs of smoke burst from the chaparral and the rustlers ducked out of sight, one of them hard hit. At that moment Johnny made his dash and caused smiles to flit across the faces of his friends.

"We might 'a knowed it was him!" laughed Skinny. "Nobody else would be loco enough to pick out that thing."

"Yes; but now what's he doing?" asked Pete, seeing Johnny poking around among the rocks, Colt in hand.

"Hunting rustlers, I reckon," Skinny replied. "Thinks they are tunnelling an' coming up under him, I suppose. Hey! Johnny!"

Johnny turned, peering at the chaparral.

"What are you doing?" yelled Skinny.

"Hunting snakes."

Skinny laughed and turned to watch the mesa, from which lead was coming.

"Can you cover me if I make a break?" shouted Johnny, hopefully.

"No; stay where you are!" shouted Pete, and then ducked.

"Stop yelling and move about some or you'll get us both hit," ordered Skinny. "Them fellers can shoot!"

"Come on; let's go ahead. Johnny can stay out there till dark an' hunt snakes," Pete was getting sarcastic. "Wonder if he reckons we came here to get shot at just to hunt snakes!"

"No; we'll help him in," Skinny replied. "You'll find th' rattlers made it too hot for him up there. Start shooting."

Johnny hearing the rapid firing of his friends, ran backwards, keeping the pinnacle between him and his enemies as long as he could. Then, once out of its shelter, he leaped erratically over the plain and gained a clump of chaparral. He now had only about a hundred yards to go, and Johnny could sprint when need was. He sprinted. Joining his friends the three disappeared in the chaparral and two disgusted rustlers helped a badly wounded companion to the rough hospital in the hut at the top of the mesa trail.

Johnny and his friends had not gone far before Johnny, eager to find a rustler to shoot at, left them to go to the edge of the chaparral and while he was away his friends stumbled on the body of Pie Willis. Johnny, moving cautiously along the edge of the chaparral, soon met Buck and Hopalong, who were examining every square foot of the mesa wall for a way up.

"Hullo, Johnny!" cried Hopalong. "What you doing here? Thought you was plumb stuck on that freak rock up north."

"I was—an' stuck, for shore," grinned Johnny. "That rock is a nest of snakes, besides being a fine place to get plugged by them fellers. An' hot!"

"How'd you get away?"

"Pete an' Skinny drove 'em back an' I made my get-away. They're in th' chaparral somewhere close," Johnny replied. "But why are you telescoping at th' joker? Think you see money out there?"

"Looking for a place to climb it," Hopalong responded. "We're disgusted with this long-range squibbing. You didn't see no breaks in th' wall up where you was, did you?"

"Lemme see," and Johnny cogitated for a moment. Then his face cleared. "Shore I did; there's lots of cracks in it, running up an' down, an' a couple of ledges. I ain't so shore about th' ledges, though—you see I was too busy to look for ledges during th' first part of th' seance, and I dassn't look during th' last of it. There was three of 'em a-popping at me!"

"Hey, Johnny!" came a hail; "Johnny!"

"That's Pete an' Skinny—Hullo!" Johnny shouted.

"Come here—Pie Willis is done for!"

"What?"

"Pie—Willis—is—done—for!"

The three turned and hastened towards the voice, shouting questions. They found Skinny and Pete standing over the body and sombreros came off as the foreman knelt to examine it. Pie had been greatly liked by the members of the outfit he had lately joined, having been known to them for years.

"Clean temple shot," Buck remarked, covering the face and arising. "There's some fine shots up on that rock. Well, here's another reason why we've got to get up there an' wipe 'em out quick. Pie was a white man, square as a die and a good puncher—I wouldn't have asked for a better pardner. You fellers take him to camp—we're going to find a way to square things if there is one. No, Pete, you an' Johnny carry him in—Skinny is going with us."

Buck, Hopalong, and Skinny returned to the edge of the pasture and the foreman again swept the wall through his glasses. "Hey! What's that? A body?"

Hopalong looked. "Yes, two of 'em! I reckon Pie died game, all right."

"Well, come on—we've got to move along," and Buck led the way north, Skinny bringing up the rear. Next to Lanky Smith, at present nursing wounds at the ranch, Skinny was the best man with a rope in the Bar-20 outfit and the lariat he used so deftly was one hundred and fifty feet in length, much longer than any used by those around the mesa. Buck had asked him to go with them because he wished to have his opinion as to the possibility of getting a rope up the mesa wall.

When they came opposite the rock which had sheltered Johnny they sortied to see if that part of the mesa was guarded, but there was no sign of life upon it. Then, separating, they dashed to the midway cover, the thicket, which they reached without incident. From there they continued to the pinnacle and now could see every rock and seam of the wall with their naked eyes. But they used the glasses and after a few minutes' examination of the ledges Hopalong turned to his companions. "Just as Johnny said. Skinny, do you reckon if you was under them to-night that you could get yore rope fast to th' bottom one?"

"Shore; that's easy. But it won't be no cinch roping th' other," Skinny replied. "She sticks out over th' first by two feet. It'll be hard to jerk a rope from that narrow foothold."

"Somebody can hang onto you so you can lean out," Buck replied. "Pete can hold you easy."

"But what'll he hold on to?"

Hopalong pointed. "See that spur up there, close to th' first ledge? He can hitch a rope around that an' hang to th' rope. I tell you it's got to be done. We can't lose no more men in this everlasting pot-shooting game. We've got to get close an' clean up!"

"Well, I ain't saying nothing different, am I?" snapped Skinny. "I'm saying it'll be hard, an' it will. Now suppose one of them fellers goes on sentry duty along this end; what then?"

"We'll solve that when we come to it," Hopalong replied. "I reckon if Red lays on this rock in th' moonlight that he can drop any sentry that stands up against th' sky at a hundred yards. We've got to try it, anyhow."

"Down!" whispered Buck, warningly. "Don't let 'em know we're here. Drop that gun, Hoppy!"

They dropped down behind the loose bowlders while the rustler passed along the edge, his face turned towards the pinnacle. Then, deciding that Johnny had not returned, he swept the chaparral with a pair of glasses. Satisfied at length that all was well he turned and disappeared over a rocky ledge ten feet from the edge of the wall.

"I could 'a dropped him easy," grumbled Hopalong, regretfully, and Skinny backed him up.

"Shore you could; but I don't want them to think we are looking at this end," Buck replied. "We'll have th' boys raise th' devil down south till dark an' keep that gang away from this end."

"I reckon they read yore mind—hear th' shooting?" Skinny queried.

"That must be Red out there—I can see half of him from here," Hopalong remarked, lowering his glasses. "Look at th' smoke he's making! Wonder what's up? Hear th' others, too!"

"Come on—we'll get out of this," Buck responded. "We'll go to camp an' plan for to-night, an' talk it over with th' rest. I want to hear what Meeker's going to do about it an' how we can place his men."

"By thunder! If we can get up there, half a dozen of us with Colts, an' sneak up on 'em, we'll have this fight tied up in a bag so quick they won't know what's up," Skinny remarked. "You can bet yore life that if there's any way to get a rope up that wall I'll do it!"