Oscar arrived durin’ the night with the whole four Simpson boys; and word that Kit and the kid were in fine shape, with ol’ man Simpson keepin’ a sharp watch, and Kit ready to take a standpat hand any time trouble crowded too close. We expected to keep Ty busy, and so didn’t worry any about Kit. Before dawn we started the four Simpsons out to make a circle and cross the crick, tellin’ ’em to use their own judgment to some extent; but not to run any risk. We wanted ’em to act like scouts and, if possible, to draw Ty into chasin’ ’em, and then to lead him back to our camp. We could see all of the other side o’ the crick from our look-out.

By dawn the rest of us were down on the edge of the cliff, and we saw ’em find Dixon’s body. They were consid’able excited about it; so we judged they had also read the notice on the door.

“What shall we do, to-day?” asked Horace.

“Shoot dogs,” sez I. “There ain’t any call to play safe any longer, and those dogs are the worst bother we have.”

“All right,” sez Horace. “This will be a good chance for me to see if I’m still in practice. I’m a purty good rifle-shot, Happy.”

I never could quite harden myself to Horace. The change in him was almost as much as that between an egg and a chicken; but yet the’ was still a suggestion of what he had been at first—his side-burns, most likely—and it allus jarred me to see him steamin’ ahead with self-confidence fizzin’ out of his safety valve. He took his elephant gun and trained it on one o’ the dogs which was sniffin’ around the place where Dixon’s body had lain. We were purty well off to the north of the ravine; but it was still a consid’able angle of a down-shot, and a good long one too.

“Remember,” sez I, “that when shootin’ down grade, you are mighty apt to shoot too high.”

He lowered his gun an’ looked at me as though I had called him a girl baby. “I have shot from every angle the’ is,” sez he; “and I’ve shot big game, too.”

“Ex-cuse me!” sez I. “Shoot now, and let’s see what happens.”

You had to take off your hat to Horace when it came to a cultivated taste in firearms. The thing he had got Promotheus with had been small enough to conceal in your back hair, while his present instrument wasn’t rightly a rifle at all, it was a half-grown cannon. It shot a bullet as big as your thumb which mushroomed out and exploded, as soon as it hit. The dog died a merciful death; but he left a mighty disquietin’ bunch o’ remains.

“Good boy, Horace!” I said, slappin’ him on the shoulder. “You keep on removin’ the dogs, and I’ll go up the slope, and pertect your rear, should they try to come up the ravine.”

I heartily endorsed this slaughter o’ the dogs; but I wasn’t ambitious to see it done. I have been well acquainted with a large number o’ dogs of all sorts and sizes, and I have deep feelin’s for dogs. When it comes to livin’ accordin’ to a feller’s own standard, a dog has us all beat. When a dog signs up, he don’t whisper nothin’ under his breath. He signs up for the full trip, and he don’t ask a lot o’ questions about how long the hours’ll be, or what sort o’ grub and quarters and pay he’ll draw. He just wags his tail, and sez: “This here feller is my idea of exactly what a feller ought to be; and I’m for him in all he does. If he wants me to fight, I’m hungry for it, if he wants me to be polite and swaller a lot o’ insults, I’ll do it, or if the time comes when my death is worth more to him ’n my life, why, I don’t know nothin’ about future rewards or such truck; but I’m perfectly willin’ to swap life for death in his name, and I’m proud to take the consequences—so long as he gets the reward.”

I own up ’at a dog has no morality; he’s only a reflection of his master. A decent man has a decent dog, a vicious man has a vicious dog—and this is why it would have hurt me more to watch Horace testin’ his aim on the dogs ’n it would if he had been minded to pot a few Cross-branders themselves, especially Ty Jones.

Now, the sound o’ this gun, and the sight of the dead dog made things buzz down below. The men peered out from all directions, but hardly knew what to do. I had sent Mexican Slim off to the right, just above the ravine, to pick off any dogs ’at came in that direction, and soon after Horace got his, Slim also got one; and Ty whistled the dogs to come to the house. Here was where his method of treatin’ a dog showed up bad. Any time before this, a dog which so much as set foot on the porch had been belted with anything capable of inflictin’ pain, and now they refused to go inside.

The Chink was able to whistle ’em to the cook-house; but that was as far as they’d go; and while they were standin’ in a bunch, Horace and Slim each got one. Ty was standin’ near one o’ the poles which upheld the back porch, and Horace exploded a slab from this pole in such a way that it knocked Ty down. This put the whole bunch into a consternation. Horace certainly could shoot some. It made me think o’ the poorhouse, when I reflected on what it had cost him to learn how.

Nothin’ much happened that day. Horace and Slim stuck to their knittin’, and the Simpson boys played their part well. They rode in a bunch, and when they’d come in sight o’ the ranch house, one would hold the field-glass case to his eyes, as though lookin’ through the field glasses, and another would turn and wave his hands, as though signallin’ to some one up in the hills. Once, two punchers went to the corral and saddled hosses; but Horace shot one o’ the hosses, and both men flew for the stable without waitin’ to take off the saddles. They had never seen such wounds as Horace’s elephant gun created, and it put ’em in a mighty thoughtful mood.

The Simpson boys came in soon after dark; and we all held a council of war while eatin’ supper. I was purty certain that we had a better bunch o’ men than those we were fightin’. It is no test of nerve to kill a man: a lot o’ men who got the reputation o’ bein’ bad were nothin’ but accidents or sneaks; but when you have to stick through a slow fight without knowin’ the odds again’ ya, it gives your nerve a mighty searchin’ try-out. I had hopes that after a day or so, they’d be certain that the hills on all sides of ’em were full of enemies, and they’d be mighty glad to settle on our terms. I didn’t want to kill a single man more ’n was necessary. Horace also thought we could wear out their nerve; but Olaf shook his head.

“Some o’ the punchers may desert in the night,” sez he; “but as long as a single one remains to stand back to back with Ty Jones, Ty Jones’ll stay and fight. He has no fear—I have seen.”

“The question is this,” sez I, “if those fellers are the kind to get fiercer the longer they’re kept in suspense, the thing to do is to raid ’em to-night; but, on the other hand, if they’re the kind whose nerve evaporates when it is kept uncovered, the thing to do is to wear ’em down. Let’s vote on it.”

We decided to do some more wearin’; so we kept a guard at the camp, and the rest of us went down to the cliff, and tossed over stones to where we thought they’d be hid, providin’ they had put guards at the mouth of the ravine. We raised a yelp the first throw, and heard a rush o’ men from the new cabin, though the shadow was so dense down below we couldn’t see a thing. This showed us that some o’ the dogs still survived and were bein’ used as guards, and also that there were men quartered in the woman’s cabin. This was a bother, as it would force us to be careful until we found out where she was livin’.

We posted a guard at the top of the path leadin’ up from the ravine, another at our camp, and went to sleep, feelin’ purty tol’able well fixed. Nothin’ happened that night, and the next day, we made ready to do about the same as we had done the day before; but when we reached the cliff, the’ wasn’t a sign o’ life below—not a single, breathin’ thing in sight, not even a hoss in the pasture.

“They’ve got away!” exclaimed Horace.

“Where to?” sez Olaf. “Ty Jones hasn’t any more use for the law ’n we have, and you’ll never make me believe ’at he’s pulled out and left all his belongin’s for whoever wants ’em.”

“That’s so,” sez I; “but where the deuce are they?”

We watched all mornin’; but not a sign, not a bit o’ smoke from the cook-house, just the ranch buildin’s settin’ there as deserted as the Garden of Eden. The Simpsons were workin’ their stunts across the crick; so about ten in the mornin’, Slim and Dutch rode over to tell ’em to come in, as they would look mighty foolish, providin’ they were makin’ signals to one of the hills where the Cross-branders themselves were hid.

After eatin’ dinner, the rest of us went down to the lookout, Horace shoulderin’ his elephant exterminator, and lookin’ peevish and fretful, ’cause the’ was nothin’ to shoot at. “Boys,” sez I, “do ya suppose ’at poor old Promotheus has been goin’ all this time on nothin’ but water.”

“He’s gone longer ’n this on nothing but water,” sez Horace; “and so have I. Over in Africa, once, we sent a tribe o’ blacks around to beat some lions out for us; but they fell in with another tribe who were not friendly, and they just kept on goin’. Promotheus and I were lost from everything, and we got into a desert before we found a way out. We went for I don’t know how long without water. Anyway, we went long enough to get into that numb condition when the earth becomes molten copper, and the sky a sun glass, and a man himself feels like another man’s nightmare. That tender old Promotheus you’re sympathizin’ with, carried me the best part of a day, or a century—time had melted entirely away—and when we came back to our senses we lay beside a pool of water. He’s tough, Promotheus is.”

“At the same time,” sez Tank, “settin’ cooped up in a log hut with nothin’ to cheer ya but water, isn’t my idy of havin’ high jinks.”

“Perhaps, too,” sez Spider Kelley, who didn’t have enough sense of fitness to change a nickel, “those mongrel coyotes lynched both him an’ the Friar before they vamosed.”

“They wouldn’t do that,” sez Olaf; “but I wish we knew what they had done.”

“Let’s go and shoot at the old cabin or the bunk-shack,” sez Oscar.

“I move we wait, and raid ’em to-night,” sez I, and this was what we decided to do.

The rest of us lolled about purty patient—as active men, an’ beasts too, are likely to do when the’s nothin’ on hand—but Horace who had lived in a room most of his life, hadn’t quite learned to turn off his steam when he hadn’t any use for it; so he kept bobbin’ up and fussin’ about. All of a sudden, he gave a sort of gasp, and pointed up the slope.

We looked and saw one man crouched over and runnin’ along where the south trail to our camp swung around a crag; and we sprang to our feet, and looked up at the camp. As we looked, the face of Ty Jones with a grin on it, poked up over a stone and leered down at us most exasperatin’.