High Chin sat staring dully at the gunman's uncovered head. The horse sniffed at Waring. High Chin's jaw sagged. He slumped down, and lay back across the body of his brother.
A pathway of lamplight floated out and across the main street of Criswell. A solitary figure lounged at the saloon bar. The sharp barking of a dog broke the desert silence. The lounger gazed at the path of lamplight which framed the bare hitching-rail. His companions of the afternoon had departed to their homes. Again the dog barked shrilly. The saloon-keeper moved to a chair and picked up a rumpled paper.
The lounger, leaning on his elbow, suddenly straightened. He pointed toward the doorway. The saloon-keeper saw the motion from the corner of his eye. He lowered his paper and rose. In the soft radiance a riderless horse stood at the hitching-rail, his big eyes glowing, his ears pricked forward. Across the horse's shoulder was a ragged tear, black against the tawny gold of his coat. The men glanced at each other. It was the horse of the fourth man; the man who had staggered in that afternoon, asked for whiskey, and who had left as buoyantly as though he went to meet a friend.
Together they moved to the doorway and peered out. The man who had first seen the horse stepped down and tied the reins to the rail. He ran his hand down the horse's shoulder over muscles that quivered as he examined the wound. He glanced at the saddle, the coiled rope, the slackened cinches, and pointed to a black stain on the stirrup leather.
[Illustration: I came over--to tell you--that it was Pat's gun]
"From the south," he said. "Maguey rope, and that saddle was made in Mexico."
"Mebby he wants water," suggested the saloon-keeper.
"He's had it. Reins are wet where he drug 'em in the tank."
"Don' know. From up north, by their rig. I'm wonderin' who the fourth fella was--and where he is."
"Why, he's out there, stiff'nin' on the sand. They's been a fight. And, believe me, if the others was like him--she was a dandy!"
"I guess it's up to us to do somethin'," suggested the lounger.
"Not to-night, Bill. You don't ketch me ridin' into a flash in the dark before I got time to tell myself I'm a dam' fool. In the mornin', mebby--"
Their heads came up as they heard a horse pounding down the road. A lean pony, black with sweat, jumped to a trembling stop.