The raiders crept forward slowly through the brush. It was a damp, cold night. Clouds in battalions were sweeping across the sky. McCoy, as he moved forward, took advantage of all the cover he could find. He could see Falkner as a dark shadow over to his left. Silcott was lost in the gloom.
The sound of a shot shattered the stillness. Falkner, the rifle in his hand smoking, let out the exultant “Yip—yip!” of a cowboy.
“Back to cover, boys!” yelled Rowan instantly.
He stumbled on a clump of grass and went down. Before he reached his feet again the tragedy was under way. Another shot rang out—a third—and a fourth.
Tait, revealed by a fugitive moon which had escaped from behind scudding clouds, was in the door of the wagon, as he had often promised. The rifle in his hand was pumping lead at the foes advancing toward him from the brush. Flashes in the darkness told Rowan that the cattlemen were answering his fire.
The head of the big sheepman lurched forward, and the rifle slid from his hands out of the wagon to the ground. At the same moment another man leaped from the wagon and started to run.
“Stop firing!” ordered McCoy sharply.
He ran forward to protect the retreat of the sheepman, but he was too late. Falkner fired. The running figure doubled up like a jack-rabbit and went down headfirst.
McCoy plunged straight for the second wagon. He could hear a herder tumbling hastily out of it, and he stood directly between the man and Falkner. The runner was, he knew, scuttling into the brush for safety.
“Let him go. Don’t shoot, Hal!” shouted McCoy.