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.
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