scattering it, slopping over a little of its contents which flamed up, burning fiercely while it lasted.
"Hands up, the lot of you," called Sheridan as he rode out of the Chayas. Two more shots sounded. Jackson darted out from the opposite side of the arroyo, between the men and their mounts, firing at the heels of the frightened herd.
"Yippi-yi-yippi," he yelled and the startled brutes, stumbling over their reins, kicking, plunging, squealing, rushed off into the clumps of cactus and mesquite, streaking north.
"I'm right back of you-all," he cried as the last of the broncos disappeared. "Herdin' coyotes on the old Coyote Trail. Elevate, gents, elevate!"
Sheridan, like a statue on the tired mare, saw a furtive hand flash towards a holster. He fired again and the man fell groaning with a bullet through his shoulder.
"Line up!" he said tersely. "Next time I'll shoot closer. And I don't miss."
"Prime light for shootin'," said Jackson. "You folks timed it just right, like we did. Moonlight! Line up, you mangy, skunk-hearted lot of hoodwinked bastards. line up!"
They stood in a crestfallen, ragged line, their faces masked behind the bandannas, surprised, deadly afraid of Sheridan's targetry, fearful of Jackson menacing their backs.
Sheridan rode to Quong and cut his wrist bonds with one hand, then gave him the knife.
"Put on your clothes," he said. "Then take their guns away. Throw them over here."
