Barrett laughed.
"What a break about the moon to come from a poet!" he said.
Fred laughed with him, seeing the incongruity of the simile, enjoying it fully, for he was one of the most practical of poets that ever lived. That little pleasantry, and the ramifications of banter and chaffing that grew out of it, cleared the brooding thought of vengeance out of Barrett's mind for a little while. The three rode as merrily as cavaliers bound for some gay rout, the moonlight whitening over the gray sageland, through which the road ran as straight as the surveyor's transit could draw it.
They were within two miles of the ranch when Dan announced that somebody was riding to meet them. Fred made immediate examination of his shotgun. Not satisfied with that alone, he exchanged the cartridges in the breech for others from his pocket. The levity and light words were hushed in a breath.
"Two of 'em," said Fred. "It ain't him."
"We'll wait for 'em here," said Dan, halting in a little dip in the land, from which the two approaching figures were not visible, and would not be again till they made the top of the little rise beyond. "I think one of 'em's him."
"Spread out," said Barrett. "Let them start it."
The two riders appeared at the top of the hill, not more than a hundred yards away.
"They don't see us, they must be ridin' in their sleep," said Dan.
"Must be," said Fred.
