“Scatter, boys, and find ’em.  Look out for them if they’re hurt.  Collect their hardware first off.”

The water by this time had subsided.  Released from the walls of the arroyo, it had spread over the desert.  The supply in the reservoir was probably exhausted, for the stream no longer poured down in a torrent.  Instead, it came in jets, weakly and with spent energy.

Hart called.  “Come here and meet an old friend, Dave.”

Sanders made his way, ankle deep in water, to the spot from which that irrepressibly gay voice had come.  He was still carrying the revolver he had taken from the Irishman.

“Meet Shorty, Dave.  Don’t mind his not risin’ to shake.  He’s just been wrastlin’ with a waterspout and he’s some wore out.”

The squat puncher glared at his tormentor.  “I done bust my laig,” he said at last sullenly.

He was wet to the skin.  His lank, black hair fell in front of his tough, unshaven face.  One hand nursed the lacerated leg.  The other was hooked by the thumb into the band of his trousers.

“That worries us a heap, Shorty,” answered Hart callously.  “I’d say you got it comin’ to you.”

The hand hitched in the trouser band moved slightly.  Bob, aware too late of the man’s intention, reached for his six-shooter.  Something flew past him straight and hard.

Shorty threw up his hands with a yelp and collapsed.  He had been struck in the head by a heavy revolver.

“Some throwin’, Dave.  Much obliged,” said Hart.  “We’ll disarm this bird and pack him back to the derrick.”  They did.  Shorty almost wept with rage and pain and impotent malice.  He cursed steadily and fluently.  He might as well have saved his breath, for his captors paid not the least attention to his spleen.

Weak as a drowned rat, Doble came limping out of the ravine.  He sat down on a timber, very sick at the stomach from too much water swallowed in haste.  After he had relieved himself, he looked up wanly and recognized Hart, who was searching him for a hidden six-shooter.

“Must ‘a’ lost yore forty-five whilst you was in swimmin’, Dug.  Was the water good this evenin’?  I’ll bet you and yore lads pulled off a lot o’ fancy stunts when the water come down from Lodore or wherever they had it corralled.”  Dancing imps of mischief lit the eyes of the ex-cowpuncher.  “Well, I’ll bet the boys in town get a great laugh at yore comedy stuff.  You ce’tainly did a good turn.  Oh, you’ve sure earned yore laugh.”

If hatred could have killed with a look Bob would have been a dead man.  “You blew up the dam,” charged Doble.

“Me!  Why, it ain’t my dam.  Didn’t Brad give you orders to open the sluices to make you a swimmin’ hole?”

The searchers began to straggle in, bringing with them a sadly drenched and battered lot of gunmen.  Not one but looked as though he had been through the wars.  An inventory of wounds showed a sprained ankle, a broken shoulder blade, a cut head, and various other minor wounds.  Nearly every member of Doble’s army was exceedingly nauseated.  The men sat down or leaned up against the wreckage of the plant and drooped wretchedly.  There was not an ounce of fight left in any of them.