"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.
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