Weaver got up and sauntered to the far end of the gallery, leaning far out to look toward Manti. His sharp exclamation brought Barkwell leaping to his side, and they both watched in perplexity a faint glow in the sky in the direction of the town. It died down as they watched.
“Fire—looks like,” Weaver growled. “We’re always too late to horn in on any excitement.”
“Uh, huh,” grunted Barkwell. He was staring intently at the plains, faintly discernable in the starlight. “There’s horses out there, Jud! Three or four, an’ they’re comin’ like hell!”
They slipped off the gallery into the shadow of some trees, both instinctively feeling of their holsters. Standing thus they waited.
The faint beat of hoofs came unmistakably to them. They grew louder, drumming over the hard sand of the plains, and presently four dark figures loomed out of the night and came plunging toward the gallery. They came to a halt at the gallery edge, and were about to dismount when Barkwell’s voice, cold and truculent, issued from the shadow of the trees:
There was a short, pregnant silence, and then one of the men laughed.
“Who are you?” He urged his horse forward. But he was brought to a quick halt when Barkwell’s voice came again:
“Talk from where you are!”
“That goes,” laughed the man. “Trevison here?”