the country. As they approached a clearing a short distance in front of
them, they saw a dark mass in the centre of the road, its outlines
indicating an emigrant wagon of the usual type.

"There they are!" shouted Bill Braymer; "but where's sheriff? Good Lord!
The shot must have hit _him_!"

"Reckon it did," said Pete Williamson, thrusting his head forward;
"there's some kind of an animal hid behind that wagon, an' it don't
enjoy bein' led along, for it's kickin' mighty lively--shouldn't wonder
if 'twas Mansell's own pony."

"Hoss-thieves too, then?" inquired Braymer; "then mebbe there'll be
_two_ rewards!"

"Yes," said Williamson's younger brother, "an' mebbe we're leavin' poor
Charley a-dyin' along behind us in the bushes somewhere. Who'll go back
an' help hunt for him!"

The quartet unconsciously slackened speed, and the members thereof gazed
rather sheepishly at each other through the gathering twilight. At
length the younger Williamson abruptly turned, dismounted, and walked
slowly backward, peering in the bushes, and examining all indications in
the road. The other three resumed their rapid gallop, Pete Williamson
remarking:

"That boy alwus _was_ the saint of the family--look out for long shot,
boys!--and if there's any money in this job, he's to have a fair share
of--that _is_ sheriff's horse, sure as shootin'--he shall have half of
what _I_ make out of it. How'll we take 'em, boys?--Bill right, Sam