I succeeded in reaching my feet, and stood there a moment, gaining what view I could through the darkness.  The short struggle, desperate as it had been, was not a noisy one, and I could hear nothing about us to indicate any alarm.  No hurrying footsteps, no cries told of disturbance in any direction.  Kirby rested exactly as he had fallen, and I stared down at the dim outlines of his distended body, unable to comprehend how my swift blow could have wrought such damage.  I bent over him wonderingly, half believing he feigned unconsciousness.  The fellow was alive, but his head lay upon a bit of jagged rock—­this was what had caused serious injury, not the impact of my fist.  Kennedy had one hard knee pressed into Rale’s abdomen and the star-rays reflected back the steel glimmer of the pistol held threateningly before the man’s eyes.  The horses beyond stood motionless, and the two women in the saddles appeared like silent shadows.  I stood up once more, peering through the darkness and listening.  Whatever was to be done, I must decide, and quickly.

“Have Rale stand up, but keep him covered.  Don’t give him any chance to break away; now wait—–­there is a lariat rope hanging to this saddle; I’ll get it.”

It was a strong cord and of good length, and we proceeded to bind the fellow securely in spite of his objections, I taking charge of the pistol, while Tim, who was more expert, did the job in a workmanlike manner.  Rale ventured no resistance, although he made no effort to restrain his tongue.

“Thar ain’t no use pullin’ thet rope so tight, yer ol’ fule.  By God, but yer goin’ ter pay fer all this.  Maybe ye think ye kin git away in this kintry, but I’ll show ye.  Damn nice trick yer two played, wa’n’t it?  The lafe will be on ’tother side afore termorrer night.  No, I won’t shet up, an’ ye can’t make me—­ye ain’t done with this job yet.  Curse ye, Tim Kennedy, let up on thet.”

“Now gag him, Tim,” I said quietly.  “Yes, use the neckerchief.  He can do more damage with his mouth than any other way.  Good enough; you are an artist in your line; now help me drag him over here into the woods.  He is a heavy one.  That will do; all we can hope for is a few hours start.”

“Is Kirby dead?”

“I’m afraid not, but he has got an ugly bump, and lost some blood, his head struck a rock when he fell.  It will be a while, I imagine, before he wakes up.  How about your man?”

He crossed over and bent down above the fellow, feeling with his hands in the darkness.

“I reckon he’s a goner, Cap,” he admitted, as though surprised.  “Gosh, I must’r hit the cuss harder than I thought—­fair caved in his hed, the pore devil.  I reckon it’s no great loss ter noboddy.”

“But are you sure he is dead?  That will put a different aspect on all this, Kennedy!” I exclaimed gravely, facing him as he arose to his feet.  “That and the belief I now have that Kirby has already consummated his plan of marriage with Miss Beaucaire.”