nothing would be gained by waiting, except that, if he waited for dark, he might be safe enough under its cover. But it would have been possible then for the two men to come on him and down him with their superior firepower.
The way down was difficult and it had to be taken slowly. If he hurried he would die of a broken neck instead of a bullet and he would have preferred not to die in any way at all. It took him every bit of fifteen minutes to reach the flat and once there, he sat down to regain his breath, for the flat to the rimrock of the canyon would have to be covered at a run. Speed would be the essence then, for he knew that if the riflemen had any sense they would be up above waiting for him to break cover. That is, if they knew the dun was hidden in the canyon. Luck might just be with him and they might not be aware of the whereabouts of the horse.
He got his breath back, tied the Remington down in the holster with the retaining thong and got to his feet. He experienced a certain reluctance to break out into the open.
But it was no use delaying it. He braced himself and shot out into the open.
A dozen yards and nothing happened.
Another dozen and the first shot came. It almost parted his hair. He knew from the sound of it that it didnât come from above, but from the flat. Glancing to his right, he saw the two mounted men put spurs to their horses and head for him at a dead run.
11
He thought:
Iâm a dead duck
.
He measured the distance between himself and the rimrock, the distance between himself and the two mounted men and he knew that he couldnât make it.
He didnât slacken pace, but ran on and prayed for a miracle, slipping the thong from the Remington and pulling the gun from leather.
Then he thought:
Iâll bet them two jaspers canât shoot a rifle from a running horse
.
He hoped he was right, because if he wasnât, he would be a dead duck after all.
The men were yelling now like wild Indians, turning their horses with skill around first one piece of rough ground and then another. They were jubilant, for they thought they had him. He was running and a running man was a scared man.
Suddenly both the men and the rimrock were twenty yards away from him.
He stopped and turned, raising the Remington. In that blurred moment of action, he could not tell one man from the other, but fired at the first one to come in his sights. The big gun boomed.
The result was startlingly violent. The horse screamed, drove its muzzle into the ground and somersaulted. The rider was hurled, all loose arms and legs like a rag doll, from the saddle. Almost from nervous reaction, McAllister snapped a shot at the man and missed.
In a second, the other rider was on top of him. McAllister jumped to get out of the way, but was too late. The shoulder of the horse caught him and bowled him over with a force that drove the wind from his body. He hit the ground hard, feeling that the landing had broken every bone in his body, but at once, knowing the danger he was in, he made an attempt to get to his feet. As he did so, he sighted the rider turning his horse.
The manâs face came into his badly focused sight. It was Foley, his features distorted with exertion and rage.
McAllister found that he still gripped the Remington in his right hand. As the horse was jumped in his direction he fired. And he knew that he had missed. Foleyâs gun blossomed dark smoke, but no lead smacked into McAllisterâs flesh and then the horse was on top of him again.
He sidestepped, grasped at Foley as the man went past, found a grip on his clothing and hung fast McAllister gripped the ground with his moccasined feet and hauled back on the man with all his weight. Foley yelled and came out of the saddle, was dumped on the ground and howled like a scalded cat.
McAllister cocked his gun and said: âGet up.â
The horse ran on a few paces, shied wildly from his fallen companion and ran off across the
The way down was difficult and it had to be taken slowly. If he hurried he would die of a broken neck instead of a bullet and he would have preferred not to die in any way at all. It took him every bit of fifteen minutes to reach the flat and once there, he sat down to regain his breath, for the flat to the rimrock of the canyon would have to be covered at a run. Speed would be the essence then, for he knew that if the riflemen had any sense they would be up above waiting for him to break cover. That is, if they knew the dun was hidden in the canyon. Luck might just be with him and they might not be aware of the whereabouts of the horse.
He got his breath back, tied the Remington down in the holster with the retaining thong and got to his feet. He experienced a certain reluctance to break out into the open.
But it was no use delaying it. He braced himself and shot out into the open.
A dozen yards and nothing happened.
Another dozen and the first shot came. It almost parted his hair. He knew from the sound of it that it didnât come from above, but from the flat. Glancing to his right, he saw the two mounted men put spurs to their horses and head for him at a dead run.
11
He thought:
Iâm a dead duck
.
He measured the distance between himself and the rimrock, the distance between himself and the two mounted men and he knew that he couldnât make it.
He didnât slacken pace, but ran on and prayed for a miracle, slipping the thong from the Remington and pulling the gun from leather.
Then he thought:
Iâll bet them two jaspers canât shoot a rifle from a running horse
.
He hoped he was right, because if he wasnât, he would be a dead duck after all.
The men were yelling now like wild Indians, turning their horses with skill around first one piece of rough ground and then another. They were jubilant, for they thought they had him. He was running and a running man was a scared man.
Suddenly both the men and the rimrock were twenty yards away from him.
He stopped and turned, raising the Remington. In that blurred moment of action, he could not tell one man from the other, but fired at the first one to come in his sights. The big gun boomed.
The result was startlingly violent. The horse screamed, drove its muzzle into the ground and somersaulted. The rider was hurled, all loose arms and legs like a rag doll, from the saddle. Almost from nervous reaction, McAllister snapped a shot at the man and missed.
In a second, the other rider was on top of him. McAllister jumped to get out of the way, but was too late. The shoulder of the horse caught him and bowled him over with a force that drove the wind from his body. He hit the ground hard, feeling that the landing had broken every bone in his body, but at once, knowing the danger he was in, he made an attempt to get to his feet. As he did so, he sighted the rider turning his horse.
The manâs face came into his badly focused sight. It was Foley, his features distorted with exertion and rage.
McAllister found that he still gripped the Remington in his right hand. As the horse was jumped in his direction he fired. And he knew that he had missed. Foleyâs gun blossomed dark smoke, but no lead smacked into McAllisterâs flesh and then the horse was on top of him again.
He sidestepped, grasped at Foley as the man went past, found a grip on his clothing and hung fast McAllister gripped the ground with his moccasined feet and hauled back on the man with all his weight. Foley yelled and came out of the saddle, was dumped on the ground and howled like a scalded cat.
McAllister cocked his gun and said: âGet up.â
The horse ran on a few paces, shied wildly from his fallen companion and ran off across the
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