The roaring in Sam Taber's ears drowned this silence as he reined up and one of his men rode close to the turning body. The man's hand went out. He said, "Too late, boss. We're too late."
Taber sat like a dead man for a full minute. Then his rage broke its bounds and flooded out through his eyes and his throat across the desert. "Take them!" he bellowed. "Take every last rotten mother's son of them! Lash the swine down! Cut them to pieces!"
He stood up in his stirrups and bent forward and lashed out with his quirt. Without question his riders went into action. Quirts rose and fell, slashed and cut. Screams and bellows and curses arose on the dark desert as the shadowy avengers moved into their bloody work.
The mob broke to run bellowing and screaming in all directions. There was no leadership now, no courage to rally them for a stand against their tormentors. The only thought was to get away from the slashing quirts; to run off into the desert and hide like squealing rats in the blackness of a safe hole. To find sanctuary.
But just in the middle of the terrible savagery, a cry went up from one of the riders. "Hey. Over there! The boss! He's down!"
The riders turned from their work and converged upon the indicated spot where Sam Taber hung limp in his saddle and was just ready to slip from his mount's back. They spied him just in time.
Two of the riders cut skillfully in and caught the lolling body. "What's wrong, boss? One of 'em get you?"
Taber's reply was tortured, throaty. "Heart. Heart's gone—bad. Can't—breathe. Done—all done."
"We've got to get him to town—quick!"