They remained silent, straining their eyes toward the fence, or where the fence should be, but there was nothing to be seen.
Suddenly the door of the house opened, throwing a beam of light into the front yard, and from out by the fence came a streak of orange-colored light, followed by the rattling report of a rifle.
Both Hashknife and Sleepy were on their feet in a moment and running toward the fence, regardless of danger. And beyond them, traveling parallel with the fence, ran the dim form of a man. Hashknife crashed into the fence and almost lost his feet, but righted himself in time to see this man mount a horse.
The man and horse were not more than fifty feet away, an odd shaped bulk in the night. Sleepy almost crashed into Hashknife, and their guns spoke almost at the same time. As fast as they could work their six-guns they fired. The flashes of the guns blinded them and made accuracy out of the question. Some one was running from the house toward them. A horse was galloping away into the hills.
“That horse ain’t got no rider!” yelped Sleepy. “I seen him against the sky. C’mon, Hashknife.”
“It’s Hartley!” panted Jack Hartwell’s voice. “Yoo-hoo, Hartley!”
“Yeah—all right!” yelled Hashknife.
Eph King and Jack ran up to them, questioning, panting from their run.
“Here he is,” said Sleepy, lighting a match.
They gathered around a man, who was lying on his face in the sage, where he had fallen from his horse. A few feet away was his rifle. They turned him over. It was no one that Hashknife and Sleepy had ever seen; a man of about thirty years of age, with a thin face, large nose and a mop of black hair.