He stopped, sucked in a great breath and dashed the stinging sweat from his eyes; and then, hardly seeing the barricade before him or the rifles that thrust out between the rocks, he put down his head and toiled on. Right on the rim, where the narrow trail nicked it, the gunmen had built a low wall and as he came on unheeding they rose up from behind it and threw down on him with their rifles.
"Stop right where you are!" a guard called out harshly and Rimrock halted—and then he came on.
"Get back or we'll shoot!" shouted a grizzled gunman who now suddenly seemed to take charge. "This claim is held by Andrew McBain and the first man that trespasses get's killed!"
"Well, shoot then," panted Rimrock, still struggling up the pathway. "Go ahead—it's nothing to me."
"Hey, you stop!" commanded the gunman as Rimrock gained the barricade, and he struck him back with the muzzle of his gun. Rimrock staggered and caught himself and then held on weakly as his breath came in quivering sobs.
"That's all right," he gasped. "I've got no quarrel with you. I came to get Andrew McBain."
"Well, stay where you are," ordered the gunman sternly, "or I'll kill you, sure as hell."
Rimrock swayed back and forth as he clung to a bush that he had clutched in his first lurching fall and as he labored for breath he gazed about wildly at the unfamiliar faces of the men.
"Who are you boys?" he asked at last and as nobody answered him he glanced swiftly back down the trail.
"It's no use to try that," said the gunman shortly, "you can't rush us, behind the wall."