The men gained steadily on the wagon, and finally Bill Braymer felt sure enough to shout:
“Halt, or we’ll fire!”
The only response was a sudden flash at the rear of the wagon; at the same instant the challenger’s horse fell dead.
“Hang keerfulness about firin’!” exclaimed Braymer. “I’m a-goin’ to blaze away.”
Another shot came from the wagon, and Williamson’s horse uttered a genuine cry of anguish and stumbled. The indignant rider hastily dismounted, and exclaimed:
“It’s mighty kind of ’em not to shoot us, but they know how to get away all the same.”
“They know too much about shootin’ for me to foller ’em any more,” remarked the third man, running rapidly out of the road and in the shadow caused by a tree.
“They can’t keep up that gait for ever,” said Bill Braymer. “I’m goin’ to foller ’em on foot, if it takes all night; I’ll get even with em’ for that hoss they’ve done me out of.”
“I’m with you, Bill,” remarked Pete Williamson, “an’ mebbe we can snatch their hosses, just to show ’em how it feels.”
The third man lifted up his voice. “I ‘llow I’ve had enough of this here kind of thing,” said he, “an’ I’ll get back to the settlement while there’s anything for me to get there on. I reckon you’ll make a haul, but—I don’t care—I’d rather be poor than spend a counterfeiter’s money.”