Under cover of a hill they rode into the pines and tied their horses. McCoy deployed his men in such a way that they could move toward the camp in a half circle. He put Cole on the extreme left, and next to him Yerby, Rogers, Silcott, and Falkner in the order named. Rowan chose the place on the right for himself, because it was nearest the wagons. He stationed Falkner next to him so that he could keep an eye on him. The raiders crept forward slowly through the brush. It was a damp, cold night. Clouds in battalions were sweeping across the sky. McCoy, as he moved forward, took advantage of all the cover he could find. He could see Falkner as a dark shadow over to his left. Silcott was lost in the gloom. The sound of a shot shattered the stillness. Falkner, the rifle in his hand smoking, let out the exultant “Yip—yip!” of a cowboy. “Back to cover, boys!” yelled Rowan instantly. He stumbled on a clump of grass and went down. Before he reached his feet again the tragedy was under way. Another shot rang out—a third—and a fourth. Tait, revealed by a fugitive moon which had escaped from behind scudding clouds, was in the door of the wagon, as he had often promised. The rifle in his hand was pumping lead at the foes advancing toward him from the brush. Flashes in the darkness told Rowan that the cattlemen were answering his fire. The head of the big sheepman lurched forward, and the rifle slid from his hands out of the wagon to the ground. At the same moment another man leaped from the wagon and started to run. “Stop firing!” ordered McCoy sharply. He ran forward to protect the retreat of the sheepman, but he was too late. Falkner fired. The running figure doubled up like a jack-rabbit and went down headfirst. McCoy plunged straight for the second wagon. He could hear a herder tumbling hastily out of it, and he stood directly between the man and Falkner. The runner was, he knew, scuttling into the brush for safety. “Let him go. Don’t shoot, Hal!” shouted McCoy. Falkner, panting, eyes burning with the lust of battle, pulled up beside Rowan. “Whad you get in my way for?” he cried excitedly. “We got to make a clean sweep now. Got to do it to save ourselves.” “No. You can’t get the others without getting me first.” McCoy’s voice rang sharp and dominant. “But, man, don’t you see we’ve got to destroy the evidence against us? Leggo my arm.” Rowan’s fingers had fastened upon the wrist of the other like steel clamps. His steady eyes were deadly in their intentness. “You’ve got to kill me before you kill them. Understand?” Yerby had reached the wagon. He spoke up at once: “Mac is right. We’ve done too much killing already. Good Lord, how did it start?” Falkner opened his lips to speak, then closed them again. He looked at McCoy and waited savagely for the accusation. But none came. Rowan said nothing.