when Barry drew his rifle from its case on the saddle. Moreover, the failing light which had made the sheriff's hit so much a matter of luck was now still dimmer, yet Barry snapped his gun to the shoulder and fired the instant the butt lay in the grove. For another moment nothing changed in the appearance of the riders, then a man leaned out of his saddle and fell full length in the water.
Around him his companions floundered, lifted and placed him on the bank, and then threw themselves from their horses to take shelter behind the first rocks they could find; they had no wish to take chances with a man who could snap-shoot like this in such a light, at such a distance. By the time they were in position their quarry had slipped out of sight and they had only the blackening boulders for targets.
“God amighty,” cried Ronicky Joe, “are you goin' to let that murderin' hound-dog get clear off, Pete? Boys, who's with me for a run at him?”
For it was Harry Fisher who had fallen and lay now on the wet bank with his arms flung wide and a red spot rimmed with purple in the center of his forehead; and Fisher was Ronicky Joe's partner.
“You lay where you are,” commanded the sheriff, and indeed there had been no rousing response to Ronicky Joe's appeal.
“You yaller quitters,” groaned Joe. “Give me a square chance and I'll tackle Vic Gregg alone day or
