Behind Teddy and Roy came Bug Eye and Nat Raymond, bending low in their saddles, holding their rifles in readiness. Their pistols were loose in the holsters, should close range fighting hamper the use of the longer barreled rifles.
The four punchers dashed over the ground. Now they came to the head of the cattle herd.
“They ought to be near here!” Teddy shouted, referring to the rustlers, “unless they got scared an’ beat it!”
But he saw almost immediately that this latter was not so. From the opposite side of the herd four men came riding, their guns out, their horses in a lather of foam.
“Spread!” Roy yelled. “Get apart! And fire low—they’ll kill us if they can!”
As the approaching rustlers came closer, their guns began to bark. Bullets whined overhead, and Teddy answered with a shot from his rifle. But this weapon was useless on the back of a rearing bronco. The boy thrust it into his saddle holster and drew his six-gun.
The four rustlers were bunched together and coming like a flying wedge. Teddy realized the wisdom of Roy’s shouted advice to “spread” when he took quick aim at the group and fired. One of the rustlers gave a wild yell and clapped his hand to his side.
“Hope that was Denver,” Teddy said to himself grimly. “Let ’em have it, Roy!” he yelled. “Pepper ’em!”
Roy was doing that very thing. The bullets of the rustlers were coming uncomfortably close, and when they swept past, Roy saw one of them take deliberate aim at Pop Burns and pull the trigger. The veteran lurched, recovered himself, and, wheeling his pony about, followed the outlaws.
“Hurt bad, Pop?” Roy called, his face white.