"Going to get back?" howled the man behind the gun.
Without further answer Reade quickened his pace somewhat, reaching the flat bottom of the gully on a run.
Though he felt that the chances were eight out of ten that he would be shot at any second, Tom didn't betray any outward fear. The truth was that even if he wanted to stop, he would have found it somewhat difficult on that steep incline.
Where he landed, on his feet, Tom stood between the hostile parties. Had hostilities opened at that moment he would have been in a bad position between the two fires.
"Great Scott!" gasped the frightened Alf, peering down.
That youngster had thrown himself flat on his stomach his head behind a bush. He was trying to make himself as small as possible. "Whew! But Reade has the real grit!"
First of all Tom gazed curiously at the four men, who glared back at him with looks full of hate.
"Who are you, anyway?" demanded the spokesman of the sullen four.
"I might be the sheriff," Tom replied placidly.
"Huh!" retorted the spokesman.