In the meanwhile Trooper Shannon heard a drumming of hoofs that grew
steadily louder before Courthorne apparently noticed the sound, and his
trained ears told him that the rustlers' horses were coming down the
trail. Now they had passed the forking, and when the branches ceased
roaring again he knew they had floundered down the first of the
declivity, and it would be well to wait a little until they had
straggled out where the trail was narrow and deeply rutted. No one
could turn them hastily there, and the men who drove them could
scarcely escape the troopers who waited them, if they blundered on
through the darkness of the bush. So five breathless minutes passed,
Trooper Shannon standing tense and straight with every nerve tingling
as he braced himself for an effort, Courthorne stooping a little with
forefinger on the trigger, and the Marlin rifle at his hip. Then
through a lull there rose a clearer thud of hoofs. It was lost in the
thrashing of the twigs as a gust roared down again, and Trooper Shannon
launched himself like a panther upon his enemy.
He might have succeeded, and the effort was gallantly made, but
Courthorne had never moved his eyes from the shadowy object before him,
and even as it sprang, his finger contracted further on the trigger.
There was a red flash, and because he fired from the hip the trigger
guard gashed his mitten. He sprang sideways scarcely feeling the bite
of the steel, for the lad's hand brushed his shoulder.
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