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.