Thus Sanderson was between the Dale outfit and the Double A ranchhouse, and he had only to look back in the direction from which he and Williams had come.  None of the Dale men could cross the fissure.

Cautiously Sanderson raised his head above the rocky edge of the fissure.  He kept his head concealed behind the two small boulders and he had an uninterrupted view of the entire side of the defile.

He saw a number of men crouching behind rocks and boulders that were scattered over the steep slope, and he counted them deliberately—­sixteen.  He could see their faces plainly, and he recognized many of them as Dale’s men.  They were of the vicious type that are to be found in all lawless communities.

Sanderson’s grin as he sighted along the barrel of his rifle was full of sardonic satisfaction, tempered with a slight disappointment.  For he did not see Dale among the others.  Dale, he supposed, had stayed behind.

The thought of what Dale might be doing at the Double A ranchhouse maddened Sanderson, and taking quick sight at a man crouching behind a rock, he pulled the trigger.

Looking only in front of him, at the other side of the defile where Sanderson’s men were concealed, the man did not expect attack from a new quarter, and as Sanderson’s bullet struck him he leaped up, howling with pain and astonishment, clutching at his breast.

He had hardly exposed himself when several reports from the other side of the defile greeted him.  The man staggered and fell behind his rock, his feet projecting from one side and his head from the other.

Instantly the battle took on a new aspect.  It was a flank attack, which Dale’s men had not anticipated, and it confused them.  Several of them shifted their positions, and in doing so they brought parts of their bodies into view of the men on the opposite wall.

There rose from the opposite wall a succession of reports, followed by hoarse cries of pain from Dale’s men.  They flopped back again, thus exposing themselves to Sanderson’s fire, and the latter lost not one of his opportunities.

It was the aggressors themselves that were now under cross fire, and they relished it very little.

A big man, incensed at his inability to silence Sanderson, and wounded in the shoulder, suddenly left the shelter of his rock and charged across the steep face of the slope toward the fissure.

This man was brave, despite his associations, but he was a Dale man, and deserved no mercy.  Sanderson granted him none.  Halfway of the distance between his rock and the fissure he charged before Sanderson shot him.  The man fell soundlessly, turning over and over in his descent to the bottom of the defile.

And then rose Williams’ voice—­Sanderson grinned with bitter humor: 

“We’ve got them, boys; we’ve got them.  Give them hell, the damned buzzards!”

CHAPTER XXVIII