“Yonder go three—no, four devils, striking away for dear life. Durn them! they’ve got enough of it this time, I’ll bet.”
“Hosses thar?” asked Simpson.
“One, two, three, eight—every one of ’em.”
“Le’s git out’n this, then.”
“All right—before any more come down on us. Devilish pretty work, wasn’t it?” admiringly queried Jack, looking down on the dead bodies below. “How’d you get away with your job, Carpenter?”
“The guide and Burt came to my assistance just as I was giving out. A minute more and it would have been too late.”
“And you, Ruby? curse me if I don’t forgive you—you fou’t like thunder. Two on you, wasn’t there?”
“Yes; I stabbed one and the other ran off, seeing Simpson coming for him,” modestly replied Robidoux.
“Well, we’ve no time to talk. The red rascals are cleaned out—pick up your weapons, boys, and mount your mustangs, and we’ll get away from this hot place.”
They stopped not to gaze longer upon the bloody scene, but mounting their horses, which under the bank had bravely stood, rode toward the deserted draft-horses. They were easily collected, and then all rode away, just as the moonlight was yielding to the paler but stronger one of day. Elated with victory they left Dead Man’s Gulches (or that part of them) with the ghastly bodies, soon to wither into dry skin and bone, and under the paling moonlight rode away, bound back to the Hillock.