“That boy alwus _wos_ the saint of the family—look out for long shot, boys!—and if there’s any money in this job, he’s to have a fair share of—that _is_ sheriff’s horse, sure as shootin’—he shall have half of what _I_ make out of it. How’ll we take ’em, boys?—Bill right, Sam left, and me the rear? If I should get plugged, an’ there’s any money for the crowd, I’ll count on you two to see that brother Jim gets my share—he’s got more the mother in him than all four of us other brothers, and—why don’t they shoot, do you s’pose?” “P’r’aps ther ain’t nobody but the driver, an’ he’s got his hands full, makin’ them hosses travel along that lively,” suggested Bill Braymer. “Or mebbe he h’ain’t got time to load. Like enough he’s captured the sheriff, an’ is a-takin him off. We’ve got to be keerful how _we_ shoot.” The men gained steadily on the wagon, and finally Bill Braymer felt sure enough to shout: “Halt, or we’ll fire!” The only response was a sudden flash at the rear of the wagon; at the same instant the challenger’s horse fell dead. “_Hang_ keerfulness about firin’!” exclaimed Braymer. “_I’m_ a-goin’ to blaze away.” Another shot came from the wagon, and Williamson’s horse uttered a genuine cry of anguish and stumbled. The indignant rider hastily dismounted, and exclaimed: “It’s mighty kind of ’em not to shoot _us_, but they know how to get away all the same.” “They know too much about shootin’ for _me_ to foller ’em any more,” remarked the third man, running rapidly out of the road and in the shadow caused by a tree. “They can’t keep up that gait for ever,” said Bill Braymer. “I’m goin’ to foller ’em on foot, if it takes all night; I’ll get even with em’ for that hoss they’ve done me out of.” “I’m with you, Bill,” remarked Pete Williamson, “an’ mebbe we can snatch _their_ hosses, just to show ’em how it feels.” The third man lifted up his voice. “I ‘llow I’ve had enough of this here kind of thing,” said he, “an’ I’ll get back to the settlement while there’s anything for me to get there on. I reckon you’ll make a haul, but—I don’t care—I’d rather be poor than spend a counterfeiter’s money.” And off he rode, just as the younger Williamson, with refreshed horse, dashed up, exclaiming: “No signs of him back yonder, but there’s blood-tracks beginnin’ in the middle of the road, an’ leanin’ along this way. Come on!” And away he galloped, while his brother remarked to his companion: “Ef _he_ should have luck, an’ get the reward, you be sure to tell him all the good things I’ve said about him, won’t you?” Jim Williamson rode rapidly in the direction of the wagon until, finding himself alone, and remembering what had befallen his companions, he dismounted, tied his horse to a tree, and pursued rapidly on foot. He soon saw the wagon looming up in front of him again, and was puzzled to know how to reach it and learn the truth, when the wagon turned abruptly off the road, and apparently into the forest.