bass
bellow of his sire might dominate the feeble bleatings of a new-born
calf. A vivid flash split the night. In the momentary illumination
details were limned sharply--the buildings, the groups of men on one
side, the running figures on the other. And poised, stationary, as it
seemed, in mid-air, above the instant eruption, hung a mushroom cloud
of smoke and dust, specked with fragments of riven wood and shattered
concrete. Through the succeeding contrasted blackness the debris
thudded upon the earth. With scarcely an interval followed a second
shot, a third, a fourth. The air became alive with hurtling masses
raining from the heavens.

The four dynamiters reached Wyndham, who, cursing in his excitement,
was straining every muscle and a comprehensive vocabulary in an effort
to hold the frightened horses.

Casey, McHale, and Sandy seized their nigh stirrups, shot them at their
left toes, gripped saddle horns, and went up in an instant. Oscar, less
expert, fumbled for a hold with his toe, hopping on his right leg as
his horse sidled and backed.

"Stand still, Ay tal you!" he gritted. "By Yudas, Ay club hal from you
purty kvick!"

Young McCrae wheeled his horse on the off side and gripped the
headstall by the bit. "Up you go!" he cried, and Oscar fell into the
saddle, the horn striking him amidships and momentarily checking a
torrent of oaths. "Hang on, now!" McCrae ordered and let go.

They shot away with a wild plunge and a scurry of panicky hoofs. The
going was rough, but luck was with them. They surged up the coulee,
emerging on the higher bench land by the trail.

"Look here, Tom," said Dunne, "what did you want to do the shooting for
back there? Afraid I'd get rattled and hit somebody?"

McHale grinned in the darkness. "Not hardly. Mostly, Casey, you _mamook
tumtum_ a heap--you look ahead and savvy plenty. You're foolish--the
way an old dog fox is. But onct in a while you overlook a bet. You're
too plumb modern and up to date."

"What's that got to do with it?"

"A lot. I don't know no other man hereabouts that packs a forty-four
automatic. See, now?"

"No."

"Why, Casey," said McHale, "I'm surprised at you! It's clear as gin.
Them guns spits out the empty shells right where you stand. Farwell
finds 'em, and he goes lookin' for a gun to fit 'em. You've got it.
There ain't no other gun hereabouts that takes forty-four automatic
ammunition. Now, my old gun don't leave no trail of ca'tridges to
follow