Buck fired, and swore at the miss as he ducked to escape an answering shot. None came. Sandy Davitt, unable to bear the sight of what had been done, deliberately leaned forward and shot the two horses. He, too, ducked low, but no shot answered.
“The son of a gun!” muttered Buck hoarsely. “He’s playing possum, Sandy. Watch out! He wants a good shot at us.”
“I’ll bet he does,” assented Davitt fervently.
For long moments the two men crouched there, peering forward, seeking any sign of movement. None came. The sun beat down on the scene, flooding with pitiless light each terrible detail on the shot-up Steve Arnold, the two horses, the two Running Dog men who had paid the price. And still Sam Fisher remained silent.
At last Buck, unable to stand the strain, went suddenly to his feet.
“All right, you can have your chance!” he cried, and flung himself forward.
Davitt watched, ready to fire at Fisher’s shot. But, to his amazement, he saw Buck check his rush, lower his pistol, and turn.
“All right, Sandy.” Buck’s voice was hoarse. “It’s all over. We got ’em.”
Davitt slowly rose, still half fearful of a trap. Then he put up his gun and stared at his work in silence.
“We win,” said Buck softly, and there was none to say him nay.