The impetuous Tom, quite as indignant as though the ranch-house were his own private property, was about to act upon his own suggestion, when Don hastily voiced an emphatic protest.
“Wait—hold on!” he cried.
Don had been thinking about Jim Raulings’ revelation regarding the cattle rustlers. Was it safe, he demanded, to rush heedlessly ahead, not knowing who might be there to confront them? Suppose, for instance, they should belong to a band such as the Texas Rangers had described—what then?
“Oh, pshaw!” scoffed Cranny, his eyes sparkling with interest. “It’s no use to call for the police. I’ll bet there isn’t one due on this beat for another moon. Besides we’re seven—all armed—— That for the cattle rustlers!” He snapped his fingers.
“Let ’er rip!” cried Tom.
And then Don saw the others flash away from his side and go swinging down the gentle incline. With a feeling of apprehension the lad slowly followed.
The moonlight falling across the dusky figures of the horsemen who had drawn rein before the windows produced a decidedly picturesque effect. Long greenish shadows straggled over the grass, details merged themselves together, though glinting lights on spurs and horses’ trappings occasionally shot forth from the half obscurity with singular clearness.
“Hello there; inside the house!” yelled Tom.
Almost instantly the broad, yellow spaces of light behind the windows were broken. Two figures flashed against it. Then the highly expectant crowd heard the creaking of the heavy window-frame as it was slowly raised.
“Hello! Who are you?” demanded a loud clear voice. The speaker leaning far out of the window gazed upon them earnestly.