“What kind is it?”
“Cowboys, an’ they’re headed right for us. I expect there’ll be some fun presently,” and the miner began loading his big revolver.
“Will they—will they kill us?” asked Bob.
“Well, no; not exactly kill you,” spoke the miner, slowly, “but they’ll try to scare you to death, and that’s about as bad.”
The wind now bore to the ears of the boys a thundering sound. It was the rapid hoof-beats of the cowboys’ ponies as they raced along. As yet nothing of the riders could be seen because of the dust.
Suddenly there came from the center of the cloud a series of terrific yells, punctuated by a score of revolver shots. At the same time forty cowboys were disclosed to the astonished gaze of the Cresville lads. Bob stopped the machine, for it was fairly surrounded by a circle of the rough riders.
“Throw up your hands!” yelled one who seemed to be the leader of the herders. He was astride a black pony, and as he spoke he leveled two big revolvers at the party in the auto.
Tremblingly, the boys obeyed.
“I mean you, too, you old greaser on the back of this new-fangled stage coach!” exclaimed the leader, waving his gun at Nestor. “Put up your hands, an’ do it mighty suddint!”