The temper of the outlaws’ metal showed instantly.  Dixon dropped his rifle, threw up his hands, and ran bleating to the cover of some large rocks, imploring the imagined posse not to shoot.  Others found silently what shelter they could.  Healy alone took reckless counsel of his hate.

Flinging his rifle to his shoulder, he blazed away at the figure on the ledge—­once, twice, three times.  When the smoke cleared the ranger was no longer to be seen.  He was lying flat on his rock like a lizard, where he had dropped just as his enemy whipped up his weapon to fire.  Cold as chilled steel, in spite of the fire of passion that blazed within him, Healy slid to the ground on the far side of his horse and, without exposing himself, slowly worked to the loose boulders bordering the edge of the canon bed.

The bawling of the cattle and the faint whimpering of Dixon alone disturbed the silence.  Healy and his confederates were waiting for the other side to show its hand.  Meanwhile the leader of the outlaws was thinking out the situation.

“I believe there’s only two of them, Bart,” he confided in a low voice to the big fellow lying near.  “Keller must have heard us when we talked it over at the shack.  I reckon he and Phil hit the trail for here immediate.  They hadn’t time to go back and rustle help and still get here before us.

“We’ll make Mr. Keller table his cards.  I’m going to try to rush the cattle through.  We’ll see at once what’s doing.  If they are too many for us to do that we’ll break for the gulch and fight our way out—­that is, if we find we’re hemmed in behind, too.”

He called to the rest of the bandits and gave crisp instructions.  At sound of his sharp whistle four men leaped into sight, each making for his horse.  Dixon alone did not answer to the call.  He lay white and trembling behind the rock that sheltered him, physically unable to rise and face the bullets that would rain down upon him.

Keller, watching alertly from above, guessed what they would be at.  His rifle cracked twice, and two of the horses staggered, one of them collapsing slowly.  He had to show himself, and for three heartbeats stood exposed to the fire of four rifles.  One bullet fanned his cheek, a second plunged through his coat sleeve, a third struck the rock at his feet.  While the echoes were still crashing, he was flat on his rock again, peering over the edge to see their next move.

“He’s alone,” cried Healy jubilantly.  “Must have sent the kid back for help.  Bart, get Dixon’s gun, steal up the ravine, and take him in the rear.  I’d go myself, but I can’t leave the boys now.”

Slowly the cattle felt the impetus from behind, and began to move forward.  The voice above shouted a second warning.  Healy answered with a derisive yell.  Keller again stood exposed on the ledge.

Rifles cracked.

This time the cattle detective was firing at men and not at horses, and they in turn were pumping at him fast as they could work the levers.  One man went down, torn through and through by a rifle slug in his vitals.  Healy’s horse twitched and staggered, but the rider was unhurt.  The officer on the ledge, a perfect target, was the heart of a very hail of lead, but when he sank again to cover he was by some miracle still unhurt.