Instantly the camp was alive with excitement. Horses were untethered and saddled, and within five minutes the posse was ready to start. Bert had given hurriedly the details of the plot and the sheriff’s campaign was quickly planned. He knew every foot of the surrounding country and he headed his troop straight as the crow flies for Dorsey, the little town, beyond which lay the tank where the Limited would slow down to take water. His line of march was shorter than that of the outlaws, and besides, they had not planned to leave the cabin before midnight. He could count on getting there first and having time to make his dispositions for the round-up of the gang.
“Well, son,” he said, with a warm grip of the hand, when they were ready to start, “I sure owe you a lot for this tip. This country’s going to sleep a heap sight better when they know these fellows have dangled from the end of a rope. But how about you, now? I’ll send one of my men along with you to Lonsdale, if you like. That’s fifteen mile west of here and on the line of road you’re traveling.”
“No, thanks,” replied Bert promptly, “I’m going with you, if you’ll have me.”
“Going with us,” echoed the sheriff in surprise. “Of course, I’m glad to have you. But that gang is ‘bad medicine’ and there’s goin’ to be some shooting. You ain’t got no call to mix in, ’cept of your own free will.”
“Sure, I know,” said Bert. “I’m going along.”
“Son,” exclaimed the sheriff, extending his hand, “put her thar. I’m proud to know you. You’re the real stuff, all wool and a yard wide. Come along.”
A word of command and they clattered off, Bert keeping alongside of the leader. He was thrilling with excitement. The primitive emotions had him in their grip. A little while before, he had been in the conventional world of law and order and civilization. Now, he was seeing life “in the raw.” A battle was imminent, and here he was riding to the battlefield over the prairies at midnight under the silent stars. The blood coursed violently through his veins and his heart beat high with passion for the fight. That he himself was running the risk of wounding and death was only an added stimulus. For the moment he was a “cave man,” like his ancestors in the morning of the world, stealing forth from their lair for a raid against their enemies. Later on, when cooler, he would analyze and wonder at these emotions. But now, he yielded to them, and the time seemed long before the little cavalcade swept through the sleeping town of Dorsey, and then, at a more slow and careful pace, made their way to the water tank below the station.
As they came nearer, they dismounted and led their horses to a clump of trees on the eastern side of the tank and a half a mile away. Two men were left in charge, with orders to strap the horses’ jaws together, so that they could not neigh and thus betray their masters. It was figured that the outlaws would approach from the west, and the members of the posse disposed themselves in a wide semicircle, so that, at a given signal, they could surround and overpower the robbers. If possible, they were to capture them alive so that they could answer to justice for their crimes. But, alive or dead, they were to “get” them. And as Bert looked on the stern, determined faces of his companions, he had no doubt of the outcome of the struggle.
After they had taken their places, lying flat on the ground with such shelter as a bush or cactus plant afforded, there was a considerable wait that was more trying to the nerves than actual fighting. Bert and the sheriff were close together, but, except for an occasional whisper, neither spoke. They were busy with their thoughts and intent on the approaching fray.
Perhaps an hour had elapsed before they heard the distant tramp of horses. Soon they could see half a dozen men approaching, their figures dimly outlined in the starlight. The grip of the watchers tightened on their pistol butts as they strained their eyes to get a better view of their quarry.