Unrewarded,
he raised himself from his scrutiny. Wrangle stood stiff head
high, with his long ears erect. Thus guided, Venters swiftly
gazed ahead to make out a dust-clouded, dark group of horsemen
riding down the slope. If they had seen him, it apparently made
no difference in their speed or direction.
"Wonder who they are!" exclaimed Venters. He was not disposed to
run. His cool mood tightened under grip of excitement as he
reflected that, whoever the approaching riders were, they could
not be friends. He slipped out of the saddle and led Wrangle
behind the tallest sage-brush. It might serve to conceal them
until the riders were close enough for him to see who they were;
after that he would be indifferent to how soon they discovered
him.
After looking to his rifle and ascertaining that it was in
working order, he watched, and as he watched, slowly the force of
a bitter fierceness, long dormant, gathered ready to flame into
life. If those riders were not rustlers he had forgotten how
rustlers looked and rode. On they came, a small group, so compact
and dark that he could not tell their number. How unusual that
their horses did not see Wrangle! But such failure, Venters
decided, was owing to the speed with which they were traveling.
They moved at a swift canter affected more by rustlers than by
riders. Venters grew concerned over the possibility that these
horsemen would actually ride down on him before he had a chance
to tell what to expect.
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