For one form he looked above all, a big man who rode somewhat slanting; but
Vic Gregg was not among the crowd, and for the rest, Barry had no wish to
come within range of their harm. The revolver at his side, the rifle in the
case, were for the seventh man who must die for Grey Molly. These who
followed him mattered nothing--except that he must not come within their
reach. He studied them calmly as they swept nearer, fifteen chosen men as
he could tell by their riding, on fifteen choice horses as he could tell by
their gait. If they pushed him into a corner--well, five men were odds
indeed, yet he would not have given them a thought; ten men made it a grim
affair, but still he might have taken a chance; however, fifteen men made a
battle suicide--he simply must not let them corner him. Particularly
fifteen such men as these, for in the mountain-desert where all men are
raised gun in hand, these were the quickest and the surest marksmen. Each
one of them had struck that elusive white ball in motion, and each had done
it with a revolver. What could they do with a rifle?
That thought might have sent him rushing Satan down the farther slope, but
instead, he raised his head a little more and began to whistle softly to
himself.
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