"It's the same outfit coming back," he explained. "The Sunken Valley
must be out there--just a hole in the surface of the desert--and that's
how that wagon popped up out of the earth the way it did. I couldn't
believe my eyes."
"Nor me neither," and the marshal drew one of his guns, and held it
dangling in his hand. "I'm a bit flustered yet, but I reckon that's
about the truth. Get them ponies round a bit more, an' we'll wait and
see what's behind that canvas."
The distance must have been farther than it seemed, or else the
travelling difficult, for it was some time before the heavy wagon and
straining team drew near enough for the two watchers to determine
definitely the character of the outfit. Westcott lay outstretched on
the far side of the dune, his hat beside him, and his eyes barely able
to peer over the summit, ready to report observations to the marshal
crouched below.
"It's Moore's team, all right," he whispered back, "and Matt is driving
them. There isn't any one else on the seat, so I guess he must be
alone.
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