Moriarity had brought two of the bags which the Doctor had placed on his own and Scip’s horse and had gone back for the third, when the door from the inner hall opened, and, his tangled hair hanging in mats over his eyes, his clothing disarranged, his face purple with rage and a revolver in each hand, Swanson appeared before the surprised robbers.

The dim light of the fire showed the picture open, and befogged as his brain was by the whisky, he realized he was being robbed, and with a roar like a mad bull he sprang upon Cummings.

Swift as a flash Cummings’ fist, sent forward with all the force of his powerful frame, struck the ranchman under the ear, and tossing his arms above his head he fell like a dead man on the floor.

The sound of many feet hurrying to the scene was heard and, leaving the bag which he was about to take when Swanson sprang on him, Cummings bolted through the door, vaulted on his horse and followed closely by his companions, rushed swiftly into the darkness.  It was none too soon, for at once a half score of men poured from the house, and the vicious snap of the rifles, followed by the pin-n-n-g of the bullets, as they cut the air close to their heads, caused the four men to drive their spurs into their ponies until the blood dropped from their lacerated flanks.

Galloping swiftly to where the herding ponies were tethered, Cummings sprang from his horse and, whipping out his keen bowie knife, cut lariat after lariat, stampeding the whole herd.  This done he remounted his horse, saying,

“Now, we can take our time.  They won’t get a horse to saddle under an hour,” cantered off with an easy, strength-saving gait.

“Curse that Swanson,” broke in Cummings, after riding in silence a few moments.  “Curse him, he kept me from making an extra ten thousand by his cursed appearance.”

Neither the Doctor nor Scip replied to this outburst from the disappointed outlaw.  The time for action was coming, and as fast as their horses could gallop, the two outlaws were riding toward the trap laid for them.  Leaning forward, with the skill of an expert pickpocket, Scip drew the revolver from the holster on Cummings’ saddle, and dropped it in the dry grass which bordered the trail.  Watching his opportunity, he pushed his horse against Moriarity, and in the slight confusion caused by the collision, he managed to obtain Dan’s revolver in the same way.  A whisper told the doctor that this had been done, and the disguised detectives each rode beside the man which they were to capture, the Doctor keeping his eye on Cummings and Scip ready to pull Moriarity off his horse at the proper time.

On the other side of the river, or divide, dark shadows stood under the few cottonwood trees, motionless and quiet as the grave, their ears strained to catch the first sound of their quarry, and their hands grasping the ready revolver.

The far-off sound of galloping horses warned them that the time to act had come, and soon the splashing of the water in the creek told them to stand ready.