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 eyes, but that was bad enough for a man with a fight against good gunmen like those fellows on his hands.

Rawlins gasped and rubbed, able presently to make out his assailants in watery contortion where they were bunched over near the haystacks, looking in his direction questioningly, holding up on their shooting as if they believed they had disposed of that annoying incidental of their day's business, but would wait a little while to make sure before going on with the rest.

Considering it a very good move to encourage this belief, Rawlins lay flat, a copious outpouring of tears washing the dirt in some measure out of his eyes, his vision improving momentarily. Two of them had their rifles out, keen for the first motion of life behind the sage-mound. The other two had ridden up to the wire fence around the haystacks, where one of them dismounted, hesitatingly doubtfully before making a dive through it, which he did presently, disappearing from sight.

Rawlins did not believe they intended to burn the hay. Hewitt would want that. There were several tons, worth a considerable sum, but there was no way of stopping them now if they had changed their minds or got their orders wrong. He could live without the hay; it wasn't worth killing a man over, or getting killed to save.

They were not going to burn the hay; they only wanted an armful of it to kindle the house. The man came to the fence with a big armload, which he threw over, crawling after it. He tried to kick the door in, the hay in his arms, appealing to his companions for