“Here we have 'em, gentlemen,” announced the steady voice of Superintendent Hawkins from the western end of the gully. “Get 'em all rounded up. If they've done Mr. Reade and Mr. Hazelton any injury then don't let one of them get away alive.”
The low sand piles near by seemed swarming with men. The steel barrels of firearms glistened even in the darkness.
The scout had been sent out to the eastward. None had thought of watching the western approach to the gully.
“Shoot, boys!” screamed Jim Duff, wheeling in a sudden frenzy of desperation. He fired straight in the direction of Hawkins's voice.
In another instant the air was rent with the sound of shots. Flashes from many revolvers lit up the darkness almost as well as torches could have done.
Jim Duff, having started his followers to firing, stole off in the darkness, leaving them to bear the brunt of the return fire of Hawkins and his men.
George Ashby lay on the ground bound as he had been left, his sawed-off shotgun not far away and his belt full of shells.
“Rouse yourself, Ash!” muttered the gambler, as he slashed the hotel man's bonds with his knife. “Get your gun, but don't use it now. Move quickly, and we'll get away from here and take Reade and Hazelton with us. Put your mind on your work, Ash, and follow my orders. Don't try to think too much for yourself. Here, this way!”
The scene of the fighting had already shifted from the immediate neighborhood of the twin trees. Duff guided his mad companion along in the darkness until they halted close to where the two engineers stood bound, powerless to join in the fray.
“Shall we shoot them here and now?” whispered Ashby, a wild light glittering in his eyes.