For a moment Scipio stared; but Sunny Oak seemed to grasp something of the situation. He flung himself before the two children, his right hand gripping a revolver which he always carried concealed amongst his rags. And at the same moment the gambler's voice came back to him. "Huyk them kids right back to the store, an' kep 'em there!" it cried. And instantly the indolent loafer, with a movement almost electrical in its swiftness, seized Vada in his arms and dashed off up the hill, followed by the little father, bearing the screaming Jamie in his. Inside the bush the three men searched, with eyes and ears alert in the fashion of furious terriers. The branches and inner leaves were spattered with blood, showing that the gambler's shots had taken some effect. The ground, too, was covered with footprints. With a rush Bill set off trailing the latter, and so soft was the ground that he had little or no difficulty in the matter. The trail took them along the creek bank, and here and there a splash of blood warned them that their quarry was severely wounded. But, even so, they were doomed to disappointment. Thirty yards from the clearing they came to a spot where the moist soil was well beaten with horse's hoofs, and here the human footprints ended. All three men stared out down the creek. And then it was that another furious oath escaped the gambler's lips, as he beheld a racing horseman making good his escape, more than a hundred yards below them. For some moments Wild Bill stood raging impotently. Then he turned on his companions, with a perfect devil glaring out of his ferocious eyes. "God's curse light on 'em!" he roared. "It's James' gang. May his soul rot. I'll get 'em! I'll get 'em! They're after those kids. But, by the wall-eyed Mackinaw, they shan't touch a hair o' their heads as long as I'm a livin' man. It's war, boys! D'ye hear? It's him an' me. Me--an' James! An' I swar to God he'll go down an' out as sure as my name's Wild Bill!" CHAPTER XXV WILD BILL FIRES A BOMB When Wild Bill returned to his hut later on in the afternoon he was consumed by a cold, hard rage, such as comes but rarely in the life of any man. There was no demonstrativeness: he had no words to give it expression. It was the rage of a man who coldly, calmly collects every faculty of brain and body into one great concentration for harm to its object. It was a moment when every evil thought and feeling was drawn into a cruel longing for harm--harm calculated to be of the most merciless description.