Sanderson scowled.  Now that the fight was over, he was at liberty to investigate; the ethics of life in the country did not forbid that—­though many men had found it as dangerous as interference.

Sanderson stood up, within full view of the two men, and hailed them.

“What’s bitin’ you guys?” he said.

The two men wheeled, facing Sanderson.  The latter’s answer came in the shape of a rifle bullet, the weapon fired from the hip of one of the men—­a snapshot.

Sanderson had observed the movement almost as soon as it had begun, and he threw himself head-long behind the shelter of the rock at his side as the bullet droned over his head.

If Sanderson had entertained any thought of the two men being representatives of the law, trailing a wrongdoer, that thought would have been dispelled by the action of the men in shooting at him.  He was now certain the men were what he had taken them to be, and he grinned felinely as he squirmed around until he got into a position from which he could see them.  But when he did get into position the men had vanished.

However, Sanderson was not misled.  He knew they had secreted themselves behind some of the rocks in the vicinity, no doubt to wait a reasonable time before endeavoring to discover whether the bullet had accomplished its sinister object.

Sanderson’s grin grew broader.  He had the men at a disadvantage.  Their horses, he had observed before calling to them, were in a little depression at the right—­and entirely out of reach of the men.

To get to them they would have to expose themselves on an open stretch between the spot where the horses were concealed and the hill on which they were secreted, and on the open stretch they would be fair targets for Sanderson.

The men had brought Sanderson into the fight, and he no longer had any scruples.  He was grimly enjoying himself, and he laid for an hour, flat on his stomach behind the rock, his rifle muzzle projecting between two medium-sized stones near the base of the large rock, his eye trained along the barrel, watching the crest of the hill on which the men were concealed.

The first man was dead.  Sanderson could see him, prone, motionless, rigid.

Evidently the two men were doubtful.  Certainly they were cautious.  But at the end of an hour their curiosity must have conquered them, for Sanderson, still alert and watchful, saw a dark blot slowly appear from around the bulging side of a rock.

The blot grew slowly larger, until Sanderson saw that it appeared to be the crown of a hat.  That it was a hat he made certain after a few seconds of intent scrutiny; and that it was a hat without any head in it he was also convinced, for he held his fire.  An instant later the hat was withdrawn.  Then it came out again, and was held there for several seconds.

Sanderson grinned.  “I reckon they think I’m a yearlin’,” was his mental comment.