"Help!" yelled Morris. "He's at the shanty up on Bald-eagle Creek."
A rumble, half cursing and half an inarticulate snarl of brute rage, rose from the cowpunchers.
"Bart," called Dan again, and leaped back from the door, raced out to Satan, and drove into the night at a dead gallop.
Half the posse rushed after him. A dozen shots were pumped after the disappearing shadowy figure. Two or three jumped into their saddles. The others called them back.
"Don't be an ass, Monte," said one. "You got a good hoss, but you ain't fool enough to think he c'n catch Satan?"
They trooped back to the dining-room, and gathered in a silent circle around the sheriff, whose little fear-bright eyes went from face to face.
"Ah, this is the swine," said one, "that was guardin' our lives!"
"Fellers," pleaded the sheriff desperately, "I swear to you that I jest heard of where Silent was today. I was keepin' it dark until after we got Whistling Dan. Then I was goin' to lead you——"
The flat of a heavy hand struck with a resounding thwack across his lips. He reeled back against the wall, sputtering the blood from his split mouth.
