“Rifle!” said Blackburn, grimly.

There were still three Circle L men at the line camps on the range; five had been left behind in the valley when the attack had been made; and only twenty others, including Blackburn, were left to cope with the rustlers.

Blackburn cast a worried glance at them.  He had plunged out of the bunkhouse with the other men in time to catch a glimpse of the outlaws as they went by with the herd, and he had roughly estimated their number at fifty.  The odds were great, and the advantage lay with the pursued, for they could select ambuscades and take terrible toll from the Circle L men.

Yet Blackburn was determined.  He yelled to the others to take advantage of whatever cover they could find; and he saw them slide from their horses, one after another, and throw themselves into a shallow depression that ran erratically north and south for some distance over the plains.  Before they reached the depression, however, there had come more white puffs of smoke from the space ahead of them, and Blackburn saw two Circle L men slide from their horses with a finality that brought a savage glare into his eyes.

“Shorty,” he said, hoarsely, to the big man at his side—­who had wriggled behind a rock at the crest of the depression and was coldly and deliberately using the rifle he had taken from the holster on his saddle; “we’ve got to have help—­them scum outnumber us.  You’ve got the fastest horse an’ you’re the best rider in the bunch.  An’ you’ve got the most sense.  Barthman’s ranch is the nearest, an’ he’s got fifteen men.  You hit the breeze over there an’ tell him what’s happened.  Tell him we’re whipped if he don’t help us.  An’ tell him to send a rider to Corts, an’ Littlefield, an’ Sigmund, an’ Lester, an’ Caldwell.  Tell ’em to take that trail leadin’ to Kinney’s canon—­this side.  That’s where they’re headin’ the cattle to.  They’ll come a-rushin’, for they like the boss.

“There’s forty men in that gang that’s hidin’ ahead of us, tryin’ to wipe us out.  But if they was a hundred we could keep ’em from makin’ any time, an’ if you’ll burn the breeze some, you can have Barthman an’ the others at the trail near Kinney’s canon before these guys get there!”

“Hell’s fire, Blackburn,” protested Shorty; “ain’t there somebody else can ride a damned horse?  I’m aimin’ to salivate some of them skunks!”

“Orders is orders, Shorty,” growled Blackburn, coldly.  “You’re goin’, an’ you’re goin’ right this minute—­or I’m goin’ to bust you in the eye!”

“Well, if you put it that way,” grimly grinned Shorty.

He crawled out of the depression, threw himself upon his horse and raced southeastward, yelling, and waving his hat defiantly at the outlaws, who were shooting at him.  But the speed of Shorty’s horse was too great for accurate shooting; and Shorty kept going—­waving his hat for a time, and then, when out of range, riding hard—­seeming to glide like a shadow into the yawning gulf of distance.