“Ugh!” he exclaimed.
All eyes followed the direction of his dark hand. Puffs of dust rose from the base of the long slope they had descended; tiny dark specks moved with the pace of a snail.
“Shadd!” added the Indian.
“I expected it,” said Shefford, darkly, as he rose.
“An' who's Shadd?” drawled Lassiter in his cool, slow speech.
Briefly Shefford explained, and then, looking at Nas Ta Bega, he added:
“The hardest-riding outfit in the country! We can't get away from them.”
Jane Withersteen was silent, but Fay uttered a low cry. Shefford did not look at either of them. The Indian began swiftly to tighten the saddle-cinches of his roan, and Shefford did likewise for Nack-yal. Then Shefford drew his rifle out of the saddle-sheath and Joe Lake's big guns from the saddle-bag.
“Here, Lassiter, maybe you haven't forgotten how to use these,” he said.
The old gun-man started as if he had seen ghosts. His hands grew clawlike as he reached for the guns. He threw open the cylinders, spilled out the shells, snapped back the cylinders. Then he went through motions too swift for Shefford to follow. But Shefford heard the hammers falling so swiftly they blended their clicks almost in one sound. Lassiter reloaded the guns with a speed comparable with the other actions. A remarkable transformation had come over him. He did not seem the same man. The mild eyes had changed; the long, shadowy, sloping lines were tense cords; and there was a cold, ashy shade on his face.