Wrangle stood stiff head high, with his long ears erect.

Thus guided, Venters swiftly gazed ahead to make out a dust-clouded, dark group of horsemen riding down the slope.

If they had seen him, it apparently made no difference in their speed or direction.
"Wonder who they are!" exclaimed Venters.

He was not disposed to run.
His cool mood tightened under grip of excitement as he reflected that, whoever the approaching riders were, they could not be friends.

He slipped out of the saddle and led Wrangle behind the tallest sage-brush.
It might serve to conceal them until the riders were close enough for him to see who they were; after that he would be indifferent to how soon they discovered him.
After looking to his rifle and ascertaining that it was in working order, he watched, and as he watched, slowly the force of a bitter fierceness, long dormant, gathered ready to flame into life.