The uncertain moonlight revealed to Stanley Fyles a movement on the distant rise of ground where the trail first mounted, and, beyond, finally disappeared. His night glasses made out a rapidly oncoming vehicle, accompanied by a small band of horsemen.
The sight rejoiced him. Things were working out well. The man Pete had not lied. McBain held the river. No boat could pass him. He would take these men as part of the gang, working in conjunction with the boat. All was well, and his spirits rose. A sharp order was passed back to his men, ambushed in the bluff where he had taken up his position. The thing would be simple as daylight. There would be no bloodshed. A few shots fired to hold the gang up. Then the arrest.
He waited. Then he backed into the ambush out of sight. The wagon came on. Through his leafy screen he watched for the details of the vehicle, the entire convoy. It would not be Bryant’s wagon; that he knew would be elsewhere. It would probably be some hired conveyance which did not belong to the village.
Nearer drew the little convoy, nearer and nearer. It was less than one hundred yards away. In the uncertain moonlight its pace seemed leisurely, and he could hear the voices of the men escorting it. He wanted it nearer. He wanted it under the very muzzles of his men’s carbines. The rattle of wheels, the plod of horses’ hoofs were almost abreast. A few seconds more, then——
Half-a-dozen shots rang out, the bullets whistling across in front of the wagon, and above the horses’ heads. The teamster reined up, throwing his horses upon their haunches. Then, like a log, he fell headlong from his driving seat.
Fyles turned with a bitter curse upon his lips for the criminal carelessness of his men. But he was given no time to vent it. A cry went up from the wagon’s escort, and a hail of bullets rained upon the ambush.
In a second the troopers charged the wagon, while two of their horses, with empty saddles, raced from the cover, and vanished down the trail.
Then the fight waged furiously.
It lasted but a few moments. These savage men about the wagon had been goaded beyond the power of their restraint, at no time great, by the fall of their comrade. A wild fury at the wanton killing by the troopers had fired the train of their passions. Retaliation had been certain—certain as death itself.