“Stop!” ordered Buck. “Git off the trail, quick; leave the brute go through! It’ll fetch Sam Fisher jest that much quicker.”
They hastened to clear the way. A moment more and the pound of hoofs came to them, and along the trail dashed the rawboned brute at a mad gallop, his vicious eyes rolling wildly, panic driving him. He was past them like a whirlwind, and went pounding away to the south.
“Fire scart him,” said Davitt, emerging into the road again. “Good idee to let him go, Buck. Scatter out, everybody! Keep yer eyes skinned!”
It was only a moment later that Buck’s voice rose warningly:
“Dust a-comin’, boys! Git together!”
Excitement spurred them as they ran in to the place of ambush. From here they had a view of the road farther down the river; they stood motionless, guns drawn, tense with expectation. Davitt and Buck were together on one side of the road, the other two men opposite them.
Into the patch of road down the river crept a moving object, dust trailing it. From Davitt broke one astounded oath.
“Look out thar, boys! It’s Stella Shumway comin’; out o’ sight, quick! Duck, you devils, duck! Let her go through; likely they’ll be behind her.”
Davitt and Buck plunged down into the brush, the others following suit. Hoofs came pounding; around the bend just ahead plunged Stella Shumway, wildly spurring her horse forward. The Circle Bar smoke had drawn her as well as others. Her strained and drawn face showed the girl’s inward anxiety.
“Hurry, boy, hurry!” she cried to her mount. “We’re ahead of them yet; we’ve got to find Uncle Jake! Hurry, hurry——”