The Circle L men had not ridden more than a mile after striking the
level when Blackburn saw some blots detach themselves from the larger
blot--a number of them, like stray wisps of clouds straggling behind a
storm.
"They're droppin' back to pot-shot us," Blackburn said to Shorty. He
yelled at the men behind, warning them, and the group split up,
spreading out, though not reducing the breakneck speed at which they had
been riding.
They had not gone far after Blackburn shouted his warning when a puff of
white smoke dotted the luminous haze ahead, and a bullet whined close to
Blackburn.
"Rifle!" said Blackburn, grimly.
There were still three Circle L men at the line camps on the range; five
had been left behind in the valley when the attack had been made; and
only twenty others, including Blackburn, were left to cope with the
rustlers.
Blackburn cast a worried glance at them. He had plunged out of the
bunkhouse with the other men in time to catch a glimpse of the outlaws
as they went by with the herd, and he had roughly estimated their number
at fifty. The odds were great, and the advantage lay with the pursued,
for they could select ambuscades and take terrible toll from the Circle
L men.
Yet Blackburn was determined. He yelled to the others to take advantage
of whatever cover they could find; and he saw them slide from their
horses, one after another, and throw themselves into a shallow
depression that ran erratically north and south for some distance over
the plains.
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