When they were within three hundred yards
he deliberately led Wrangle out into the trail.
Then he heard shouts, and the hard scrape of sliding hoofs, and
saw horses rear and plunge back with up-flung heads and flying
manes. Several little white puffs of smoke appeared sharply
against the black background of riders and horses, and shots rang
out. Bullets struck far in front of Venters, and whipped up the
dust and then hummed low into the sage. The range was great for
revolvers, but whether the shots were meant to kill or merely to
check advance, they were enough to fire that waiting ferocity in
Venters. Slipping his arm through the bridle, so that Wrangle
could not get away, Venters lifted his rifle and pulled the
trigger twice.
He saw the first horseman lean sideways and fall. He saw another
lurch in his saddle and heard a cry of pain. Then Wrangle,
plunging in fright, lifted Venters and nearly threw him. He
jerked the horse down with a powerful hand and leaped into the
saddle. Wrangle plunged again, dragging his bridle, that Venters
had not had time to throw in place. Bending over with a swift
movement, he secured it and dropped the loop over the pommel.
Then, with grinding teeth, he looked to see what the issue would
be.
The band had scattered so as not to afford such a broad mark for
bullets. The riders faced Venters, some with red-belching guns.
Pages:
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307