“A rifle, to be sure.” The mild brown eyes glanced up reproachfully. “A man does not go hunting without––... What is this!” he completed in consternation, as, finding himself suddenly alone, he hurried outside and stood confusedly scratching his bushy poll, in the block of light surrounding the open doorway.
The yard was deserted. As one snuffs a candle, the men had vanished. Hans’ pipe had 228 gone out and he went inside for a match. Though the stars fell, the German must needs smoke. Only a minute he was gone, but during that time a group of horsemen had gathered in the street. Others were coming across lots, and still others were emerging from the darkness of alleys. Some were mounted; some led by the rein, wiry little bronchos. Watching, it almost seemed to the German that they sprang from the ground.
“Are you all ready?” called a voice, Bud Evans’ voice.
“Here––”
“Here––”
“All ready?”
“Yes––”
“We’re off, then.”
There was a sudden, confused trampling, as of cattle in stampede; a musical creaking of heavy saddles; a knife-like swish of many quirts through the air; a chorus of dull, chesty groans as the rowels of long spurs bit the flanks of the mustangs, and they were gone––down the narrow street, out upon the prairie, their hoof beats pattering diminuendo into silence; a cloud of 229 dust, grayish in the starlight, marking the way they had taken.
Jim Donovan, the blacksmith, came running excitedly up from a side street. He stopped in front of the hotel, breathlessly. Holding his sides, he followed with his eyes the trail of dust leading out into the night.