Weaver got up and sauntered to the far end of the gallery, leaning far out to look toward Manti. His sharp exclamation brought Barkwell leaping to his side, and they both watched in perplexity a faint glow in the sky in the direction of the town. It died down as they watched. "Fire--looks like," Weaver growled. "We're always too late to horn in on any excitement." "Uh, huh," grunted Barkwell. He was staring intently at the plains, faintly discernable in the starlight. "There's horses out there, Jud! Three or four, an' they're comin' like hell!" They slipped off the gallery into the shadow of some trees, both instinctively feeling of their holsters. Standing thus they waited. The faint beat of hoofs came unmistakably to them. They grew louder, drumming over the hard sand of the plains, and presently four dark figures loomed out of the night and came plunging toward the gallery. They came to a halt at the gallery edge, and were about to dismount when Barkwell's voice, cold and truculent, issued from the shadow of the trees: "What's eatin' you guys?" There was a short, pregnant silence, and then one of the men laughed. "Who are you?" He urged his horse forward. But he was brought to a quick halt when Barkwell's voice came again: "Talk from where you are!" "That goes," laughed the man. "Trevison here?" "What you wantin' of him?" "Plenty. We're deputies. Trevison burned the courthouse and the bank tonight--and killed Braman. We're after him." "Well, he ain't here." Barkwell laughed. "Burned the courthouse, did he? An' the bank? An' killed Braman? Well, you got to admit that's a pretty good night's work. An' you're wantin' him!" Barkwell's voice leaped; he spoke in short, snappy, metallic sentences that betrayed passion long restrained, breaking his self-control. "You're deputies, eh? Corrigan's whelps! Sneaks! Coyotes! Well, you slope--you hear? When I count three, I down you! One! Two! Three!" His six-shooter stabbed the darkness at the last word. And at his side Weaver's pistol barked viciously. But the deputies had started at the word "One," and though Barkwell, noting the scurrying of their horses, cut the final words sharply, the four figures were vague and shadowy when the first pistol shot smote the air. Not a report floated back to the ears of the two men. They watched, with grim pouts on their lips, until the men vanished in the star haze of the plains. Then Barkwell spoke, raucously: "Well, we've broke in the game, Jud. We're Simon-pure outlaws--like our boss. I got one of them scum--I seen him grab leather. We'll all get in, now. They're after our boss, eh? Well, damn 'em, we'll show 'em! They's eight of the boys on the south fork. You get 'em, bring 'em here an' get rifles. I'll hit the breeze to the basin an' rustle the others!" He was running at the last word, and presently two horses raced out of the corral gates, clattered past the bunk-house and were swallowed in the vast, black space.