"Sure! Only I'll tell you, Casey, I'm awful tired of having it put all over me by fellers that ain't got no license to. Some of these gents that allow they're hard citizens ain't so dog-goned much. I s'pose they figure on us peaceable farmers bein' bluffed out by a hard face and a hostile talk. That's an awful bad bet for 'em to make."
They were approaching a region of broken ground, carved and ridged with coulées and low hills, worthless save for range purposes. There Casey decided that he would turn back. At best it was like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. Chance only could serve them. Suddenly McHale checked his horse.
"Listen!" he said sharply.
They were riding by the base of a low hill. At one side the ground sloped away in a shallow depression which marked the head of a coulée. As they sat listening intently the stillness was broken by a hollow, muffled sound, the unmistakable trampling of hoofs. Faint at first, it increased in volume. Plainly, horses were coming up the draw.
Four horsemen came into view. They were riding carelessly, slouching in their saddles. One struck a match to light a pipe. The flame of it showed for an instant above his cupped hands. At a hundred yards they perceived the waiting horsemen, and halted abruptly.
"You there!" Casey hailed. "We want to talk to you!"
A vicious oath came as answer, distinct in the stillness. Then: "You get back and mind your own business!"
McHale's rifle action clicked and clashed as he levered a cartridge from magazine to chamber. "Up with your hands, the bunch of you," he ordered, "or——"
SO QUICK WAS HIS PIVOTING MOTION THAT CASEY WAS ALMOST UNSEATED