was gone. By common consent they had all turned back before the boldest had made fifty yards from the fire.
Retreat turned to rout for Flash followed them back, striking swiftly and leaping away from the shot he feared would follow. They shot blindly after him, endangering their own lives more than his. The last man he heeled as he would a cow and threw him.
When they burst into the circle of firelight they found Harte seated on a rock calmly smoking a cigarette.
“You’re a bloody looking crew,” he observed. “I’d like to own that dog.”
One man extended his left hand, exhibiting a ragged flesh wound between thumb and forefinger.
“Some fool shot me,” he growled. “It was either Seely or Cole.”’ Both men profanely denied this charge. Harte laughed scornfully as he looked them over.
“Mistaken identity,” he jeered. “Clay Siggens, shot by a pal who mistook him for a dog in the Battle of Hide and Seek.” They scowled down at him.
“I was out with Jarrat and Hanlin this spring,”
