cautiously forward when, by all the rules of life in that country, he
should have stood at a distance to allow the men to fight it out among
themselves.

Sanderson's interest grew as the fight progressed. When he had
approached as far as he safely could without endangering his own life
and that of Streak, he dismounted at the bottom of a small hill,
trailed the reins over Streak's head and, carrying his rifle, made his
way stealthily to the crest of the hill. There, concealed behind an
irregularly shaped boulder, he peered at the combatants.

He had heard several reports while dismounting and ascending the hill,
and by the time he looked over the crest he saw that the battle was
over. He saw the three men grouped about a cluster of rocks on a hill
not more than a hundred yards distant. Two of the men were bending
over the third, who was stretched out on his back, motionless. It
appeared to Sanderson that the two men were searching the pockets of
the other, for they were fumbling at the other's clothing and,
seemingly, putting something into their own pockets.

Sanderson scowled. Now that the fight was over, he was at liberty to
investigate; the ethics of life in the country did not forbid
that--though many men had found it as dangerous as interference.

Sanderson stood up, within full view of the two men, and hailed them.

"What's bitin' you guys?" he said.

The two men wheeled, facing Sanderson. The latter's answer came in the
shape of a rifle bullet, the weapon fired from the hip of one of the