They were suddenly quiet down the road. The man with the rifle had stopped firing. Simpson stole a cautious look, expecting an immediate response. The three were facing the other way, watching the approach of two men who came riding from the south.
Tom's heart sagged lower, low as it had swung before. It seemed, indeed, that it hit the bottom that time. Reënforcements. The three men were waiting for them, little as they were needed. But no! The two men from the south snapped out their guns and began to shoot as they came tearing within range of the three. There was a break among the horsethieves, a wild scattering, a futile popping of their guns, and they were off.
It was useless, and it seemed an act by a man who had crept out of his hole, but Simpson emptied his gun after the three as they cut toward the southwest down the old cattle trail. The two men who had arrived in his extremity rode up to where Simpson was standing between the legs of his dead horse. Tom's hand was covered with blood; his disabled rifle lay at his feet, the trampled ground was sown with empty shells.
"Looks like you'd been havin' a little skirmish," said one of the riders.
He was slipping his gun into the holster, grinning amiably.
Simpson had to look twice before he was sure it was Sheriff Treadwell, but half a glance sufficed to identify his companion, who was nobody on earth but Wallace Ramsey of the Bar-Heart-Bar. The Sheriff was not wearing his derby hat and buttoned shoes. That was his buckboard rig. To-day he was attired like any rider of the
