The poet took his post in the middle of the road, his gun held ready. The other two drew off to the roadside into the low sage and soap-weed clumps which grew sparsely there, a space of three or four yards between them. The riders were approaching leisurely, not in the suspicious, watchful manner of those who travel the road at night in guilty conscience, or bound upon deeds of violence and treachery. Now they discovered the three posted across the road ahead of them, and drew sudden rein.
"Let them start it," Barrett admonished again.
Barrett heard low voices exchange quick words; the click of bridle trappings when one of the horses shook its head impatiently.
"Don't shoot, Fred!"
Fred Grubb started, seemed to grow a foot taller as he stiffened with surprise. He leaned to look, his gun-barrel between his horse's ears.
"That you, Alma?" he hailed in suspicious voice.
"Yes. May we come on?"
"Pass by!" said Fred, drawing out of the road.
The two came on. Dan was right in his identification; the man was Findlay. He rode with his head up, passing the three at the roadside as if unaware of their presence, although Alma hailed them with friendly salutation, calling each by name.
"Fine night for a ride," she said, turning to call back to them.
"Yes, and fine company to be ridin' in!" said Fred, but in a low muttered voice of disapproval that could not reach her ears.
