He heard a sharper report, and just as Wrangle plunged again he
caught the whim of a leaden missile that would have hit him but
for Wrangle's sudden jump. A swift, hot wave, turning cold,
passed over Venters. Deliberately he picked out the one rider
with a carbine, and killed him. Wrangle snorted shrilly and
bolted into the sage. Venters let him run a few rods, then with
iron arm checked him.
Five riders, surely rustlers, were left. One leaped out of the
saddle to secure his fallen comrade's carbine. A shot from
Venters, which missed the man but sent the dust flying over him
made him run back to his horse. Then they separated. The crippled
rider went one way; the one frustrated in his attempt to get the
carbine rode another, Venters thought he made out a third rider,
carrying a strange-appearing bundle and disappearing in the sage.
But in the rapidity of action and vision he could not discern
what it was. Two riders with three horses swung out to the right.
Afraid of the long rifle--a burdensome weapon seldom carried by
rustlers or riders--they had been put to rout.
Suddenly Venters discovered that one of the two men last noted
was riding Jane Withersteen's horse Bells--the beautiful bay
racer she had given to Lassiter. Venters uttered a savage outcry.
Then the small, wiry, frog-like shape of the second rider, and
the ease and grace of his seat in the saddle--things so
strikingly incongruous--grew more and more familiar in Venters's
sight.
Pages:
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308