"What range? Did he say?"
"About fourteen hundred."
"Fourteen hundred, huh? Then he couldn't have been recognized."
"Luckily not."
"Luck is the word—for you—for us."
"Wonder who did the shooting?"
"I don't know. Ben dug out one of the bullets from his horn. It was fifty caliber—a Sharps."
"That was Tom Walton himself," declared Tom Driver. "He's the only one in his outfit owning a Sharps, and he won't let any one else shoot it. 'Twas Tom Walton. And don't be so positive Ben wasn't recognized, Rafe. I hear Walton carries field glasses now."
"He is getting suspicious," smiled Tip O'Gorman.
The smile stung the amiable Rafe. "He's gotta be stopped."