“I know Dog’s Ear, William; there will be more than six in this affair.”
They separated at the bed of the river and rode openly in the direction opposite to that of the coach road, as if they were simply out for a gallop. They, at any rate, reached their appointed place without, so far as they could tell, being seen, and well hidden by the darkness under the trees and the thick scrub, waited for the coach.
Presently they heard the muffled tramp of horses’ hoofs on the short turf, and Bill, crouching in his saddle—quite unnecessarily—whispered, “Dog’s Ear.”
Varley nodded, and a faint smile played about his lips. The men they were going to checkmate were within a few yards of them, divided from them only by the road that spanned the Gulch. They could hear a voice, husky and low, giving orders, a few muttered responses, then all was still again.
“How many?” asked Varley, with his mouth almost at Bill’s ear.
Bill shook his head doubtfully.
“Almost a dozen,” he said.
Varley nodded; it confirmed his own estimate. Then both men sat motionless, straining their ears for the sound of the coming coach. Presently Varley moved slightly, and stretching out his hand in the darkness, touched Bill’s arm, and a moment or two afterward the latter heard the rhythmical beat of the horses’ feet, and yet a little later the dull roll of the wheels.
There was an instant or two of suspense, interrupted by the musical notes of the guard’s horn, then out from the darkness there grew two specks of light from the lamps; the rhythmical beat struck sharper, the roll of the wheels deepened, and suddenly the coach loomed through the night and the leaders rattled on to the bridge.
This was evidently the signal for the Dog’s Ear attack; for, as the metal of the horses’ shoes rang upon the timber, there was a rush from the Gulch beneath, and a body of horsemen surrounded the coach, while one man, mounted on an appropriately black horse, rode up alongside the coachman and covered him.