But
whether a man thought of Florrie Engle gone or of the shooting of
Sheriff Roberts or of the looting of Las Vegas or of a ranch raided, he
was like his fellows in that he knew that at last Jim Galloway had come
out into the open and that to-night must be Galloway's triumph or
Galloway's death. And perhaps he wondered if his own saddle would run
empty under the stars before another dawn.
Three or four miles from San Juan Norton made out an approaching rider,
one who bent over his horse's mane, racing furiously. The figure,
growing rapidly distinct as it drew on from the north, grew erect as
the horseman saw Norton's posse. The rider jerked in his horse,
pausing a moment as though in doubt whether he were meeting friend or
foe. Then, when again he came on at the same headlong gallop, Norton
recognized him. It was Elmer Page.
"They're fighting back yonder!" cried the boy wildly, his eyes shining
with his excitement. "Brocky Lane sent me. . . . I haven't a rifle,
who will give me a rifle? I'll give a man a hundred dollars for a
rifle!"
"Easy, Elmer," said Norton sharply. "Tell us what Brocky sent you to
say. Where are they?"
"Along the arroyo just off to the east of Mt. Temple. About a mile
from the mountain . . . you know where the biggest boulders are all
strung out along the arroyo? It's there.
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