They squirmed around until they could stare into two black gun-barrels--and then their hands went up; their faces held a particularly foolish expression that must have been amusing to the men behind the guns. One of the gun-barrels lowered and a hand reached out and quietly took possession of Tamale's reins; the owner of the hand got calmly into Bob's saddle. Bob gritted his teeth. It was evident their movements had been planned minutely in advance, for, once settled to his liking, the fellow tested the stirrups to make sure they were the right length, and raising his gun pointed it at the two in a business-like manner that left no doubt of his meaning. Whereupon the man behind them came forward and appropriated Old Ironsides to his own use. “Too bad we had to interrupt Sunday-school,” he remarked ironically. “You can go ahead with the meetin' now--the collection has been took up.” He laughed without any real mirth in his voice and gathered up the reins. “If yuh want our horses, they're up on the bench. I don't reckon they'll ever turn another cow, but such as they are you're quite welcome. Better set still, boys, till we get out uh sight; one of us'll keep an eye peeled for yuh. So long, and much obliged.” They turned and rode warily down the slope. “Now, wouldn't that jar yuh?” asked Bob in deep disgust His hands dropped to his sides; in another second he was up and shooting savagely. “Get behind the rock, Bud,” he commanded. Just then a rifle cracked, and Bob toppled drunkenly and went limply to the grass. “My God!” cried Thurston, and didn't know that he spoke. He snatched up Bob's revolver and fired shot after shot at the galloping figures. Not one seemed to do any good; the first shot hit a two-year-old square in the ribs. After that there were no cattle within rifle range. One of the outlaws stopped, took deliberate aim with the stolen Winchester and fired, meaning to kill; but he miscalculated the range a bit and Thurston crumpled down with a bullet in his thigh. The revolver was empty now and fell smoking at his feet. So he lay and cursed impotently while he watched the marauders ride out of sight up the valley. When the rank timber-growth hid their flying figures he crawled over to where Bob lay and tried to lift him. “Art you hurt?” was the idiotic question he asked. Bob opened his eyes and waited a breath, as if to steady his thought. “Did I get one, Bud?” “I'm afraid not,” Thurston confessed, and immediately after wished that he had lied and said yes. “Are you hurt?” he repeated senselessly. “Who, me?” Bob's eyes wavered in their directness. “Don't yuh bother none about me,” evasively. “But you've got to tell me. You--they--” He choked over the words. “Well--I guess they got me, all right. But don't let that worry yuh; it don't me.” He tried to speak carelessly and convincingly, but it was a miserable failure. He did not want to die, did Bob, however much he might try to hide the fact.