“Nick,” the boy said tensely, “do you hear something that has nothing to do with the storm?”
The puncher listened.
“A crashin’ in the bushes,” he answered, in a puzzled tone. “Sounds like a couple of horses threshin’ around. They ain’t our broncs, I know, ’cause they ain’t in that direction. Maybe—”
A flash of lightning illuminated the scene and Roy saw his brother standing perfectly still, his hand to his side.
“You hear it too?” Roy called.
“Yes, I sure do. Some animal, that’s sure. The noise is getting nearer.”
The crashing in the bushes did sound closer. It was a noise distinct from the storm, another sort altogether.
“Stick together,” Silent advised suddenly. “Something’s comin’.”
Their eyes glued to that spot of blackness before them, the boys waited, hands on revolver butts. Across the sky ripped a jagged stroke of lightning.
By its light the watchers saw a strange sight. About fifteen feet from them, framed in a network of dripping trees, were two horsemen. Their steeds were prancing wildly about, savage with fright. On one of the broncos was a man who sagged in the saddle, a man whose hat was gone and whose arm was bandaged rudely to his side. He held weakly to the reins with his other hand. His face was pallid, expressionless.