As instantly, eight rifles on the bank began to play.  The crackling of their reports was like infantry, the sliding click of the ejecting mechanism as continuous and regular as the stamp-stamp of many presses.  The smoke rose over their heads in a blue cloud.  Far out on the river, under impact of the bullets, splinters of the rotted driftwood leaped high into the air.  Now and then the open water in front splashed into spray as a ball went amiss.  Not until the rifle magazines were empty did they cease, and then only to reload.  Again and once again they repeated the onslaught, until it would seem no object the size of a human being upon the place where they aimed could by any possibility remain alive.  Then, and not until then, did silence return, did the dummy upon Stetson’s rifle again raise its head.

But this time there was no response.  They waited a minute, two minutes—­tried the ruse again, and it was as before.  Had they really hit the man out there, as they hoped, or was he, conscious of a trick, merely lying low?  Who could tell?  The uncertainty, the inaction, goaded all that was reckless in cowboy Buck’s nature, and he sprang to his feet.

“I’m going out there if I have to walk on the bottom of the river!” he blazed.

Instantly Stetson’s hands were on his legs, pulling him, prostrate.

“Down, you fool!” he growled.  “At the bottom of the river is where you’d be quick enough.”  The speaker turned to the others.  “One of us is done for already.  There’s no use for the rest to risk our lives without a show.  We’ve either potted Blair or we haven’t.  There’s nothing more to be done now, anyway.  We may as well go back.”

For a moment there was a murmur of dissent, but it was short-lived.  One and all realized that what the rancher said was true.  For the present at least, nature was against them, on the side of the outlaw; and to combat nature was useless.  Another time—­yes, there would surely be another time; and grim faces grew grimmer at the thought.  Another time it would be different.

“Yes, we may as well go.”  It was Mick Kennedy who spoke.  “We can’t stay here long, that’s sure.”  He tossed his rifle over to Stetson.  “Carry that, will you?” and rising, regardless of danger, he walked over to cowboy Pete, took the dead body in his arms, without a glance behind him, stalked back to where the horses were waiting, laid his burden almost tenderly across the shoulder of his own mustang, and mounted behind.  Coming up, the others, likewise in silence, got into their saddles, not as at starting, with one bound, but heavily, by aid of stirrups.  Still in silence, Mick leading, the legs of dead Pete dangling at the pony’s shoulder, they faced east, and started moving slowly along the backward trail.

CHAPTER XIII

A SHOT IN THE DARK