Harley P. Hennage had crossed from the eating-house, and had just reached the porch of the Silver Dollar saloon, when above the whistling of the “zephyr” he heard the muffled reports of three pistol shots. One “Borax” O'Rourke, a “mule-skinner” from up Keeler way, who had just arrived in San Pasqual to spend his pay-day after the fashion of the country, heard them also. “Down the tracks,” O'Rourke elucidated. “Tramps fightin' with a railroad policeman, I guess. Let's go down.” “What's the use?” objected Mr. Hennage. “A yegg never does any damage unless he's right on top of his man. They all carry little short bulldog guns, an' I never did see one o' them little bar pistols that would score a hit at twenty yards after sundown. They carry high.” At that instant the sound of another shot was heard, but faintly. “That's the hobo” announced Mr. Hennage with conviction. “Them first three shots came from a life-size gun.” Half a minute passed; then came the report of six shots, following so quickly upon each other that they sounded almost like a volley. “Nine shots” commented “Borax” O'Rourke. “That's an automatic.” “That's what it is!” Mr. Hennage walked to the end of the porch. He was just a little excited. “It's all off with the hobo” he continued. “I know the man that's using that automatic, and he can shoot your eye out at a hundred yards. I saw him ridin' in just as I left the eatin' house.” “He must have been movin' to get down there in such a hurry. What's a man on horseback doin' chasin' hobos across a web of railroad tracks, an' if he was headed south, seems to me he'd have laid over for supper--” But Harley P. had a flash of inspiration now. “Come on, O'Rourke” he shouted, and made a flying leap off the saloon porch. Borax followed, and the two raced down the street at top speed--which, in the case of Mr. Hennage, owing to his weight and his bow-legs, was not remarkable. Borax easily outdistanced him. Meanwhile, a rather spectacular panorama had been unfolding itself back of the string of box-cars. Guided by Donna's screams, Bob McGraw sent his horse away at a tearing gallop, lifting him in great leaps across the maze of railroad tracks, and in a shower of flying cinders brought him up, almost sitting, in the little foot-path between two lines of track. Almost under Friar Tuck's front feet, Donna was struggling in the grasp of three ruffians, one of whom was endeavoring to tie a handkerchief across her mouth. The velocipede had been derailed by means of a car-stake placed across the track. Bob McGraw's long gun rose and fell three times, and at each deadly drop a streak of flame punctured the moon-light. The three assailants went down, shot through their respective legs--which remarkable coincidence was not a coincidence at all, but merely a touch of kindly consideration on the part of Bob McGraw, who didn't believe in killing his man when wounding him would serve the same purpose.