Hashknife heard Butch working with the doors, and finally he came back to Glover. Hashknife picked up the old chair, grasping it by the back, as he knelt close to the stairs. There was no railing around the stairway, and he saw the black bulk of the two men, as their head and shoulders came above the floor level.
The next instant the heavy chair crashed down upon them, swung with every ounce of strength in Hashknife’s arms and shoulders. Rungs splintered out of it, and Hashknife swayed sharply sideways to keep from falling down on them, when his hands held nothing but the back of the chair.
He heard a sharp grunt, the bumping crash of a falling body, a wondering curse, and then he flung himself over the edge of the stairway, landing on a yielding bulk, which he knew was the body of one of the men.
As he reached frantically down, searching for the man’s holster, his hand came in contact with a revolver, lying on a step. Swiftly he sprang down the remaining steps and into the front room of the ranch-house just as the front door was jerked open.
Hashknife fired one shot, but he was sure it missed. The man had darted to the right, and Hashknife ran through the doorway after him, vaulting the railing, running halfway to the rear of the house, where he paused to listen.
“Hashknife!” called Slim’s voice softly from toward the stable.
“Up here,” replied Hashknife, and in a moment Slim had joined him. Hashknife was thankful that Slim did not ask questions.
“I got yore gray horse and another one,” he whispered. “The gray was behind the stable, so I moved it away. Then a man rode in and tied to the corral. I kept down, and as soon as he left the horse, I swiped it.”
“Good boy! Where did that feller go, Slim?”
“I heard him runnin’, and I think he went around the house.”