“They’ve got all of their horses over there together,” yelled Brocky into Norton’s ear.  “The horses for those Ginneys who have been hiding out in the mountains, too.  That’s why I cut in between them that way.  Now if we can only scatter their cayuses . . . why, Roddy, we’ll have every damned one of ’em afoot to be rounded up when we get ready!”

And Brocky, limping as he went, had raced along after the others.

But Norton did not follow.  His eyes had gone to the horses which he and the San Juan men had left beyond the little line of boulders.  And, travelling that way, he had seen a lone horseman far off to the south, a horseman riding frantically, seeking to come to the lower slopes of Mt.  Temple.

CHAPTER XXVI

THE BELLS RING

“Galloway!”

It seemed almost as though some great voice had shouted it to him through the din.  Yonder, riding on his spurs, come at this late moment, was Jim Galloway.  The man responsible for all of to-night’s bloodshed, for the disappearance of Florrie, for the death of Billy Norton.

“Coming, Jim Galloway!”

Did he say it?  Or again was it a voice shouting to him, urging him on?  He looked off to the east.  Flying forms everywhere with other racing forms pursuing, firing as they ran.  Horses jerking back, rearing, breaking away from the few men guarding them.  Full defeat for Jim Galloway there.  But to the west?  Galloway coming on at top speed, shouting as he came, and, upon the mountain’s lower slope the others of Galloway’s men, armed and bloodthirsty.  If Galloway came to them, whipped them with his tongue, stirring them with his magnetism . . . why, then, the fight was all to be fought over.

Now again Norton, too, was running, bearing down upon the straggling horses.  He caught up the first dragging reins to lay his hand to, swung up into the saddle, measured swiftly the distance between Galloway and the men on the mountain . . . and used his spurs.

On came Jim Galloway, his wide, heavy shoulders not to be mistaken in the rich moonlight, his hat gone, his head up, a rifle across the saddle in front of him.  Norton lost sight of him as he swept down into the bed of the arroyo, caught sight of him again from the farther side.  Already Galloway was appreciably nearer his men, driving his horse mercilessly.

“If he comes to his crowd before I can stop him,” was Norton’s thought, “he’ll put his game across on us yet.  I’ve got to head him off and take the chances.”

Nor were the odds to be overlooked.  Galloway was still too far away to be stopped by a rifle-ball, and Norton, heading him off, would expose himself not only to Galloway’s fire but to that of the men who were moving to a lower slope to meet their leader.  And yet, with fate in the balance, here was no time for hesitation.