About this time the natives of Bunkerville began to wonder whether the young sheriff was not more brave than prudent. He had started without associates (for he had never appointed a deputy); he might have a long chase, and into counties where he was unknown, and might be dangerously delayed. The final decision—or the only one of any consequence—was made by four of the “regulators,” who decided to mount and hurry after the sheriff and volunteer their aid. By taking turns in riding ahead of their own party, these volunteers learned, at the end of the first day, that Charley could not be more than ten miles in advance. They determined, therefore, to push on during the night, so long as they could be sure they were on the right track. An hour more of riding brought them to a cabin where they received startling intelligence. An emigrant wagon, drawn by very good horses, had driven by at a trot which was a gait previously unheard of in the case of emigrant horses; then a young man on horseback had passed at a lively gallop; a few moments later a shot had been heard in the direction of the road the wagon had taken. Why hadn’t the owner of the house hurried up the road to see what was the matter?—Because he minded his own business and staid in the house when he heard shooting, he said. “Come on, boys!” shouted Bill Braymer, giving his panting horse a touch with his raw-hide whip; “perhaps the sheriff’s needin’ help this minute. An’ there’s generally rewards when counterfeiters are captured—mebbe sheriff’ll give us a share.” The whole quartet galloped rapidly off. It was growing dark, but there was no danger of losing a road which was the only one in that part of the country. As they approached a clearing a short distance in front of them, they saw a dark mass in the centre of the road, its outlines indicating an emigrant wagon of the usual type. “There they are!” shouted Bill Braymer; “but where’s sheriff? Good Lord! The shot must have hit _him_!” “Reckon it did,” said Pete Williamson, thrusting his head forward; “there’s some kind of an animal hid behind that wagon, an’ it don’t enjoy bein’ led along, for it’s kickin’ mighty lively—shouldn’t wonder if ’twas Mansell’s own pony.” “Hoss-thieves too, then?” inquired Braymer; “then mebbe there’ll be _two_ rewards!” “Yes,” said Williamson’s younger brother, “an’ mebbe we’re leavin’ poor Charley a-dyin’ along behind us in the bushes somewhere. Who’ll go back an’ help hunt for him!” The quartet unconsciously slackened speed, and the members thereof gazed rather sheepishly at each other through the gathering twilight. At length the younger Williamson abruptly turned, dismounted, and walked slowly backward, peering in the bushes, and examining all indications in the road. The other three resumed their rapid gallop, Pete Williamson remarking: