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At a hundred yards they perceived the waiting horsemen, and halted abruptly. "You there!" Casey hailed. "We want to talk to you!" A vicious oath came as answer, distinct in the stillness. Then: "You get back and mind your own business!" McHale's rifle action clicked and clashed as he levered a cartridge from magazine to chamber. "Up with your hands, the bunch of you," he ordered, "or "
Personally he would have welcomed a fight. He was a marvellously quick and accurate shot with either rifle or revolver, and he was ready to make a friend's quarrel his own. However, he deferred to McHale's views.
There were rough and tough men in the crowd who were quite ready for trouble; but their readiness did not extend to rushing a gunman unless an urgent necessity existed. Farwell broke through them, breathless from a sprint at top speed. He paid no attention whatever to McHale's weapon. "What's the matter here?" he demanded. "You, Lewis, speak up!"
Peeping over the edge of the stack, she recognized Tom McHale. McHale was putting a strand of wire around the stack, and as she looked he began to sing a ballad of the old frontier. Clyde had never heard "Sam Bass," and she listened to McHale's damaged tenor.
Then we'll have a talk." Thus admonished, Sandy led the way to his lean-to, rekindled the fire, helped picket McHale's horses, and set the coffee-pot to boil. They drank coffee and smoked, going into details of their experiences of the preceding day. McHale was amazed to hear of Sandy's arrest by Glass, whom he had held in contempt.
The remainder was lost in the bark of a gun as one of the other party fired. McHale's horse jumped as though stung, just as he pulled the trigger, bumping into Shiner. Immediately that uncertain quadruped wheeled and kicked at him. So quick was his pivoting motion that Casey was almost unseated. He saved himself, but lost his rifle, which fell to the ground.
The sheriff, seeing her, pulled up. She caught McHale's hardened paw in both her hands, searching his eyes for the truth. But McHale's face, though weary and lined with pain, and, moreover, rendered decidedly unprepossessing by a growth of stubble, contained no signs of disaster. "Where's Casey, Tom?" "Casey?" McHale replied.
The horsemen appeared to be making for the valley, but not by the way in which they had come. "By thunder!" cried McHale, "it looks like they're pullin' out." His further remarks were lost in a rolling fire as Sandy unhooked his entire magazine at the retreating figures. He caught up McHale's rifle and emptied that, too. "Save some ca'tridges for seed," advised McHale.
"That's so," Casey agreed. "So when I want a man and don't know where he's gone, I find out what place he thinks he knows best," the sheriff continued. "The system wins nine times out of ten. Now you say McHale's only out temporary. He's got a clear self-defence case, or thinks he has, and he's merely side-steppin' trouble. In that case he won't go as far as another man might.
"It's just want of practice," grinned McHale. "Some day when I have time I'm going out to get me a girl like you. There was one down at " But Clyde's appearance interrupted McHale's reminiscences. She and Sheila, arms about each other, strolled away to exchange confidences. Casey and Farwell followed. "We ain't in it," said McHale. "Well, who wants to be?" said Sandy.
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