"Who? How many?" asked Jeff Rankin.
"One man done it."
"Hal Dozier?" said Andrew.
"Him," said Larry la Roche. He went on, looking gloomily down at the fire. "He got me first. The chief must of seen him get me by surprise, while I was down off my hoss, lying flat and drinking out of a creek!" He closed his great, bony fist in unspeakable agony at the thought. "Dozier come behind and took me. Frisked me. Took my guns, not the coin. We went down through the hills. Then the chief slid out of a shadow and come at us like a tiger. I sloped."
"You left Allister to fight alone?" said Scottie Macdougal quietly, for he had come from his lookout to listen.
"I had no gun," said Larry, without raising his eyes from the fire. "I sloped. I looked back and seen Allister sitting on his hoss, dead still. Hal Dozier was sittin' on his hoss, dead still. Five seconds, maybe. Then they went for their guns together. They was two bangs like one. But Allister slid out of his saddle and Dozier stayed in his. I come on here."
The quiet covered them. Joe Clune, with a shudder and another glance over his shoulder, cast a branch on the fire, and the flames leaped.
"Dozier knows you're with us," added Larry la Roche, and he cast a long glance of hatred at Andrew. "He knows
you're with us, and he knows our luck left us when you come."
Andrew looked about the circle; not an eye met his.