Even now, after Duff and Ashby had sighted them, Moore and Bodson halted
twice to light matches and examine the trail that their keen eyes had
discovered as moving westward from the gully.

"Now, I reckon we've got the general direction," muttered Rafe Bodson
when, after having once more discovered the tracks he turned and got the
general course. "We know the way to head."

"Then we won't light any more matches," suggested Jeff. "It might get us
into trouble."

Accordingly they kept on, guiding themselves now by their general
knowledge of the country.

Jim Duff and Ashby were well concealed, not only by the sand, but by a
little fringe of brush as well.

Hence it is not to be wondered at that Bodson and Moore went forward to
be astonished by a sudden movement in the sand, followed by a hail of
"Gentlemen, get your hands up, or take your medicine!"

The command came in Jim Duff's tones.

He was barely thirty feet away from the surprised pair, one of his
revolvers leveled so to drop Bodson at a touch of the trigger.

George Ashby's sawed-off shotgun looked squarely at the region bounded
by Jeff Moore's belt.

"It's your turn, gentlemen," agreed Rafe, he put his hands in the air.

"You've got us--be decent," grinned Jeff, as he, too, raised his hands
upward.

"Get your hands up higher!" ordered Jim Duff in his deadliest tone.
These men were now helpless, and the gambler merely chuckled inwardly at
the thought.

"Is this where we shoot them?" queried the mad hotel keeper.

"Yes--after a minute or two!" nodded Jim Duff, who wished first to
determine whether the automobiles of the searching party were moving too
near to them.

"I can hardly wait for the word!" quivered Ashby.

CHAPTER XXIV. CONCLUSION

"How long are we to keep our hands up, Duff?" questioned Jeff.

"Quiet," hissed the gambler. "I'm listening."

"If it's for friends of ours," grimaced Rafe Bodson, "you needn't listen
any longer. We haven't any friends in either crowd now."

"Quiet, I tell you!" snarled Duff.

No noise of moving automobiles came to the gambler's keen ears in the
darkness of the night.

"Ready," faintly whispered Duff, giving Ashby a slight nudge.

"Shoot 'em?" whispered the mad hotel man.

"Yes; you hit Jeff. I'll take care of Rafe!"

Just then darkness fell upon the gambler. He was knocked flat and
senseless by a blow of a fist from behind.

In the same instant a man leaped upon George Ashby, bearing