The night passed on. Another hour was gone when there came a sudden commotion far up the ravine, as if on the further outskirts of the ruffians. There were hoarse shouts, angry oaths, the rattle of shots, and then the clatter of iron-shod hoofs.
The ring and echo of those clattering hoofs receded into the night, coming back clear and distinct at first, but growing fainter and fainter.
Frank Merriwell laughed and lay still until the sound of the galloping horse had died out in the distance.
"Old Joe is on his way to the post-office," muttered Merry. "He took a fancy to acquire one of their horses in order to make better time."
The ruffians were filled with more or less consternation. They continued to wrangle angrily. At last, one cried:
"Oh, Merriwell!"
Frank lay perfectly still and made no answer.
"Oh, Merriwell!"
Peering forth from amid his rocky barrier, yet crouching where the shadows hid him, Frank cocked his rifle and pushed it forward for use.