“Greyhound,” the other man shouted, “buck up! I can’t manage yore pony! This nag of mine—”
He stopped. Another flash of lightning had revealed the group in front of him, four men, each with a gun in his hand.
“Greyhound,” the man yelled again, “turn yore bronc! You gotta turn him! Watch out!”
A horse neighed shrilly, weirdly in that stormy darkness. The crack of a whip on flesh. A frantic crashing in the brush.
“Greyhound,” came faintly, “you gotta—”
Then the men were gone. The noise of their departure faded out. The storm resumed its rightful rule over the forest.
The four campers stood as though changed to stone. Was it real, this they had just seen and heard? Could they have been dreaming?
Silent it was who broke the spell. His voice came harshly, through set teeth.
“I stood there,” he gritted out, “I stood there an’ watched ’em! Me, I watched ’em get away! I knew ’em! I knew ’em in a minute!”
He took a deep breath and fought for self-control. When next he spoke his voice was toneless, dead.