“I reckon, Roy, I’ll stay here,” Teddy panted. His horse faltered, missed a step, and slid backward. Teddy turned him, and halted. “You go on,” he said through clenched teeth. “I’ll take my chances. I can hold ’em back for a while. Take it, you mangy dogs!” He raised his gun, and pulled the trigger viciously. “Teddy, save it! We’ll stand right here, and if they want us, they’ll have to plough through hot lead to get us! Steady, bucko! Wait till they--” Yelping triumphantly, the pack reached the bottom of the gully. Roy could see blood on their jaws, still wet from their recent feast made from their dead comrade. Soon, perhaps, they might obtain another food supply. Roy’s eyes narrowed, and drawing his gun he took careful aim. “We’ll fire together,” he said in a low voice. “And keep on shooting. But they’ll never stop now to feed. We either win this fight or we don’t. Good luck, ole hoss!” “Good luck, Brother,” Teddy whispered. It was the first time he had ever used the term. The wolves came on. They reached a spot fifty yards from the waiting horsemen, who sat quietly, holding their mounts with one hand and their guns with the other. The broncos were trembling violently, but still they stood, not panic stricken now, but placing implicit faith in their masters. “Let ’em have it!” Crack! Crack! The roaring thunder of the guns filled the ravine, drowning the savage cries of the wolves. One of the animals was down, another snapping fitfully at his shoulder. But the pack did not halt, nor even hesitate. Before them was prey far sweeter than their own kind. “Reckon it’s curtains!” Teddy yelled. “Stick to it, kid! Blast ’em!” Suddenly, directly behind Roy, a wild shout arose. Guns--many of them--split the air with their reports. There were more yells. A torrent of lead struck into the advancing horde, halted them, turned them, and sent them scampering away, leaving five dead upon the ground. The fight was won, but the bullets that had stemmed the tide had not come from the guns of Teddy and Roy Manley. CHAPTER III ROY’S KNIFE As an encore to the heavy cracks of the guns came a voice--low, amused, and dryly sarcastic: “Reckon you’ll hang the ‘Welcome’ sign on your door for us, hey?” Teddy and Roy swung quickly around. Facing them, guns out and still smoking, were three men. One of them had a wart on his nose. The second was shorter, and looked a great deal like his disfigured companion. The other horseman, who had made the remark, was a lean grizzled vaquero, whose mouth drooped at the corners, and whose eyes were mere slits in his leathern skin. “Why, you’re the Lefton brothers!” Teddy exclaimed. “How did you--” “The same, at your service,” the taller one answered. “And this is Mob Jamisson. You’ll have to figure out for yourself why they call him Mob.” “Howdy,” Mob said curtly. “Seems like you boys were ready to furnish them animals with a meal, hey?”