"Old-timers," he said.
It was not Sanderson's affair. He told himself that many times as he
rode slowly forward. To his knowledge the country was cursed with too
many men of the type the two appeared to be; and as he had no doubt
that the other man was of that type also, they would be doing the
country a service were they to annihilate one another.
Sanderson, though, despite his conviction, felt a pulse of sympathy for
the first rider. It was that emotion which impelled him to keep going
cautiously forward when, by all the rules of life in that country, he
should have stood at a distance to allow the men to fight it out among
themselves.
Sanderson's interest grew as the fight progressed. When he had
approached as far as he safely could without endangering his own life
and that of Streak, he dismounted at the bottom of a small hill,
trailed the reins over Streak's head and, carrying his rifle, made his
way stealthily to the crest of the hill. There, concealed behind an
irregularly shaped boulder, he peered at the combatants.
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