Then he tried to get to his feet, pitched forward on his face and lay still. The other man did not move, except that he half turned over. Hashknife went slowly up to them, his jaw shut grimly. He had shot deliberately, slowly—only twice. Even with the two-to-one odds, the advantage had been with him, because he had been ready for the battle.
Hashknife did not make any examination of the men. He heard the drumming of hoofs, as the posse rode up, and in a few moments they were surrounded by excited men—the nine men who had ridden out of Blue Wells with Sleepy.
“My ——, it’s Al Porter and Chet Le Moyne!” exclaimed the sheriff, tearing the masks off the two men. “Hartley, what does this mean?”
He came to Hashknife, gripping his arm. “It means that an officer of the law went wrong,” said Hashknife coldly.
“But how?” demanded the excited sheriff. “My ——, this needs more explanation than that, Hartley.”
“Go easy,” advised Sleepy, who turned to Hashknife. “We wasn’t quite to the Broken Cañon, when we spotted these two riders. They were headin’ this way, foggin’ to beat ——; so we follered.”
“Good thing yuh did, Sleepy.”
Questions volleyed at Hashknife, while others examined Le Moyne and Porter, but Hashknife brushed them all aside.
“They’re both as dead as herrin’,” said Johnny Grant.
Two more riders came—Antelope Neal and Lee Barnhardt.