He saw the three men grouped about a cluster of rocks on a hill not more than a hundred yards distant.

Two of the men were bending over the third, who was stretched out on his back, motionless.

It appeared to Sanderson that the two men were searching the pockets of the other, for they were fumbling at the other's clothing and, seemingly, putting something into their own pockets.
Sanderson scowled.

Now that the fight was over, he was at liberty to investigate; the ethics of life in the country did not forbid that--though many men had found it as dangerous as interference.
Sanderson stood up, within full view of the two men, and hailed them.
"What's bitin' you guys ?" he said.
The two men wheeled, facing Sanderson.

The latter's answer came in the shape of a rifle bullet, the weapon fired from the hip of one of the men--a snapshot.
Sanderson had observed the movement almost as soon as it had begun, and he threw himself head-long behind the shelter of the rock at his side as the bullet droned over his head.
If Sanderson had entertained any thought of the two men being representatives of the law, trailing a wrongdoer, that thought would have been dispelled by the action of the men in shooting at him.