All but Fairbain were asleep when Keith aroused them once more, a little before nine, unable in his impatience to brook longer delay. Within ten minutes horses were saddled, weapons looked to carefully, and the little party began their advance through the darkness, moving cautiously over the uneven ground, assisted greatly by the bright desert stars gleaming down upon them from the cloudless sky overhead. The distance proved somewhat less than had been anticipated, and Keith's watch was not yet at eleven, when his eyes revealed the fact that they had reached the near vicinity of the lonely island on which the cabin stood. Reining in his horse sharply, he swung to the ground, the others instantly following his example, realizing they had reached the end of the route. Hands instinctively loosened revolvers in readiness for action, the younger of the “Bar X” men whistling softly in an effort to appear unconcerned. Keith, with a gesture, gathered them more closely about him.
“If Hawley is here himself,” he said quietly, watching their faces in the starlight, “he will certainly have a guard set, and there may be one anyhow. We can't afford to take chances, for there will be five men, at least, on the island, and possibly several more. If they are looking for trouble they will naturally expect it to come from the north—consequently we'll make our attack from the opposite direction, and creep in on them under the shadow of the corral. The first thing I want to do is to locate Miss Waite so she will be in no danger of getting hurt in the mêleé. You boys hold your fire, until I let loose or give the word. Now, Doctor, I want you and Neb to creep up this bank until you are directly opposite the cabin—he'll know the spot—and lie there out of sight until we begin the shooting. Then both sail in as fast as you can. I'll take Bristoe and you two 'Bar X' men along with me, and when we turn loose with our shooting irons you can all reckon the fight is on. Any of you got questions to ask?”
No one said anything, the silence accented by the desert wind howling mournfully in the branches of a near-by cottonwood.
“All right then, boys, don't get excited and go off half cocked; be easy on your trigger fingers. Come along, you fellows who are travelling with me.”
The four crossed the stream, wading to their waists in the water, their horses left bunched on the south bank, and finally crawled out into a bunch of mesquite. As they crept along through the darkness, whatever doubts Keith might have previously felt regarding the presence on the island of the party sought, were dissipated by the unmistakable noise made by numerous horses in the corral. Slowly, testing each step as they advanced, so no sound should betray them, the four men reached the shelter of the stockade. The older of the “Bar X” men lifted himself by his hands, and peered cautiously over.
“Eight hosses in thar,” he announced soberly; then turned to Keith. “Say, Jack, what do you figure this shebang to be, anyhow? You don't reckon it's old Sanchez's outfit, do yer?”
“Likely as not, Joe, though I never saw him around here.”
Joe filled his cheek with tobacco, staring about through the darkness.
“Wall, if that ol' cuss is yere now we'uns is sure in fer a fight,” he commented positively.
They rounded the corral fence on hands and knees, crawled into a bunch of bushes somewhat to the rear of the silent, desolate-appearing cabin, and lay down flat behind a pile of saddles, from which position they could plainly discern the rear door. There was no movement, no evidence anywhere that a living soul was about the place. Keith could barely distinguish that it was Bristoe lying next to him.