Along a fifty or sixty
yard front the Kid's and del Rio's men had crept in closer to Brocky's
arroyo, worming their way upon their stomachs, and now fired together.
There came a rattling reply from the creek, the shouting of cowboys.

"We'll take those fellows first," ordered Norton quickly. "They will
see us when we climb that little rise. Spread out; go easy until we
get to the top. Then, boys, let's see who can give them hell first and
fastest."

They looked to their rifles for the last time and rode slowly up the
short slope of the low-lying ridge. Then, as the first man topped it,
there came a shout from the shadows in front, another shout, and the
whizzing of rifle-balls. Norton used his spurs then; his big roan
leaped forward and was racing down the farther slope; his men in a long
line rode with him. And as he rode he lifted his own gun and poured
his lead into the thickest of the shadows.

A wild shout of cheering broke from the arroyo; rifle-barrels grew hot
in hot hands. On through the bright moonlight came the sheriff's
posse, some of them firing as they rode, others saving their lead. To
be seen from afar now, they drew many a shot toward themselves. And
yet the target of a man riding swiftly over uneven ground and in the
moonlight is not to be found overreadily by questing lead. When Norton
called to his men to stop and dismount, taking advantage of a row of
scattered boulders, not a saddle was empty.

[Illustration: On through the bright moonlight came the sheriff's
posse.]

Every man as he dismounted threw his horsed reins to the ground; the
animals might bolt or they might not, some of them might not stop for
many a mile, others would be found a hundred yards away. But they must
all think less of that now than of what lay in front of them.

"That you, Norton?" came a cheery voice booming suddenly through the
silence which had shut down as the newcomers disappeared among the
boulders.

"Here, Brocky!" shouted Norton. "All right down there?"

"Pretty well," called Brocky. "They've winged three or four of
us . . . they're damned rotten shots, Roddy. We've popped over a dozen
of them."

There were other shouts then, tenor Mexican voices for the most part
with the Kid's unmistakable snarl running through them. Men were
calling in Spanish to their fellows across the arroyo. Whatever it was
that Brocky was trying to say was lost in the din. And then again came
a volley of rifle-s