Her voice died into the distance. Almost before she had gone, Davitt was out in the road, then swinging himself into a tree for a swifter view of the lower valley.
“They’re comin’ behind her,” said Buck, his voice steady. “Now the only question is—who’s a-comin’? If it’s a hull blamed crowd, we got to lay low. If it’s them two——”
“Hey, Buck!” Davitt came sliding down, plunged into the dust, sprang eagerly to his feet again. “Two comin’—no more that I can see. Likely they stopped to halt Harper’s hoss, or try to, and the gal went on ahead. Them two’ll be our meat; couldn’t be no others. Watch the road now——”
The four craned forward, intent. Into the patch of road down the river slid the forms of two horses, galloping neck and neck.
“Got ’em!” cried Buck triumphantly. “Git set, boys; let ’em have it as they come around this here bend.”
They scurried to their places, eager with the trembling thrill of the man hunt, fired out of themselves by the hot lust for blood, careless of the thing they were about to do. Hidden, they waited, guns at the level, bloodshot eyes trained on the bend of the trail.
Came a furious drive of hoofs pounding the dusty trail. Through it lifted the voice of Steve Arnold gayly, boyishly:
“Whoop-ee! Out o’ my way, cowboy! I’m crowdin’ you for room; gimme air! Go git a good hoss if ye want to ride with me——”
Buck’s lips curved cruelly; they were coming together, racing neck and neck!
And then—they came. Plunging around the bend together, Sam Fisher and Arnold, low in the saddle, driving their white-flecked horses, racing to catch up with the girl ahead and reach the cause of that smoke reek in the sky.