That is the last I heard for a long time.  I must have slept.  I remember that the baby stirred and I spoke to him.  It seemed to me that something struck against the guy-rope that held our tarpaulin taut, but I wasn’t sure.  I was in that dozy state, half asleep, when nothing is quite clear.  It seemed as though I had been listening to the tramp of feet for hours and that a whole army must be filing past, when I was brought suddenly into keen consciousness by a loud voice demanding, “Hello!  Whose outfit is this?” “This is the 7 Up,—­Louderer’s,” the boss called back; “what’s wanted?” “Is that you, Mat?  This is Ward’s posse.  We been after Meeks and Murdock all night.  It’s so durned dark we can’t see, but we got to keep going; their horses are about played.  We changed at Hadley’s, but we ain’t had a bite to eat and we got to search your camp.”  “Sure thing,” the boss answered, “roll off and take a look.  Hi, there, you Herm, get out of there and fix these fellers something to eat.”

We were surrounded.  I could hear the clanking of spurs and the sound of the wet, tired horses shaking themselves and rattling the saddles on every side.  “Who’s in the wickiup?” I heard the sheriff ask.  “Some women and kids,—­Mrs. Louderer and a friend.”

In an incredibly short time Herman had a fire coaxed into a blaze and Mat Watson and the sheriff went from bed to bed with a lantern.  They searched the mess-wagon, even, although Herman had been sleeping there.  The sheriff unceremoniously flung out the wood and kindling the cook had stored there.  He threw back the flap of our tent and flashed the lantern about.  He could see plainly enough that there were but the four of us, but I wondered how they saw outside where the rain made it worse, the lantern was so dirty.  “Yes,” I heard the sheriff say, “we’ve been pushing them hard.  They’re headed north, evidently intend to hit the railroad but they’ll never make it.  Every ford on the river is guarded except right along here, and there’s five parties ranging on the other side.  My party’s split,—­a bunch has gone on to the bridge.  If they find anything they’re to fire a volley.  Same with us.  I knew they couldn’t cross the river nowhere but at the bridge or here.”

The men had gathered about the fire and were gulping hot coffee and cold beef and bread.  The rain ran off their slickers in little rivulets.  I was sorry the fire was not better, because some of the men had on only ordinary coats, and the drizzling rain seemed determined that the fire should not blaze high.

Before they had finished eating we heard a shot, followed by a regular medley of dull booms.  The men were in their saddles and gone in less time than it takes to tell it.  The firing had ceased save for a few sharp reports from the revolvers, like a coyote’s spiteful snapping.  The pounding of the horse’s hoofs grew fainter, and soon all was still.  I kept my ears strained for the slightest sound.