About two miles farther on, from the surface of the plain came a flash of flame and the short bark of a forty-five, followed by another and another. The men reined in, but the shots were directed the other way. The marksman was evidently too occupied with his invisible target to notice them. But on their nearer approach he rose to his feet and started to run. A shot over his head, a sharp command, and he halted and was surrounded by the vigilantes, but not before he had slily dropped some object in the grass. One of the men dismounted and struck a match.
"Why, it's Henry Dorgan!" exclaimed Mart Cooley.
Dorgan appeared to be greatly flustered and in pain. His left arm was helpless from a wound in the shoulder, and from the fleshy part of it an arrow protruded. It probably had been less painful to leave it there than to pull it out. It was a home-made arrow.
"What you shootin' at?" demanded Bill Jordan.
"That infernal Injun," whined Dorgan. "He's bin pesterin' me; follerin' me like a shadow."
The vigilantes peered into the darkness, and made out a hummock on the prairie. It was a dead horse, and from behind it Injun rose and came toward the group. He had been reassured by the sound of Bill's voice.
"Lemme go!" cried Dorgan. "I don't want no more truck with him," and he started as if to run, but was roughly held back.
"What's all this rumpus about, Injun?" Bill Jordan demanded, when the boy was within hearing.
Injun indicated Dorgan. "Him steal Monty," he said.