After they had gone Curly and his prisoner returned to the road and set out toward Tin Cup. About a mile and a half up the line they met Cullison and his riders on the way down. Maloney was with them. He had been picked up at the station.
Dick gave a shout of joy when he heard Flandrau’s voice.
“Oh, you Curly! I’ve been scared stiff for fear they’d got you.”
Luck caught the boy’s hand and wrung it hard. “You plucky young idiot, you’ve got sand in your craw. What the deuce did you do it for?”
They held a conference while the Circle C riders handcuffed Dutch and tied him to a horse. Soon the posse was off again, having left the prisoner in charge of one of the men. They swung round in a wide half circle, not wishing to startle their game until the proper time. The horses pounded up hills, slid into washes, and plowed through sand on a Spanish trot, sometimes in the moonlight, more often in darkness. The going was rough, but they could not afford to slacken speed.
When they reached the edge of the mesa that looked down on the Flatiron the moon was out and the valley was swimming in light. They followed the dip of a road that led down to the corral. Passing the fenced lane leading to the stable, they tied their ponies inside and took the places assigned to them by Cullison.
They had not long to wait. In less than half an hour three shadowy figures slipped round the edge of the corral and up the lane. Each of them carried a rifle in addition to his hip guns.
They slid into the open end of the stable. Cullison’s voice rang out coldly.
“Drop your guns!”
A startled oath, a shot, and before one could have lifted a hand that silent moonlit valley of peace had become a battlefield.