The
raiders, riding like vaqueros, swept on in a curve, cutting off
what distance they could. One fellow, a small, wiry rider, high
on his mount's neck like a jockey, led his companions by many
yards. He seemed to be getting the range of Ladd, or else he
shot high, for his bullets did not strike up the dust behind Sol.
Gale was ready to shoot. Blanco Sol pounded by, his rapid, rhythmic
hoofbeats plainly to be heard. He was running easily.
Gale tried to still the jump of heart and pulse, and turned his
eye again on the nearest pursuer. This raider was crossing in,
his carbine held muzzle up in his right hand, and he was coming
swiftly. It was a long shot, upward of five hundred yards. Gale
had not time to adjust the sights of the Remington, but he knew
the gun and, holding coarsely upon the swiftly moving blot, he
began to shoot. The first bullet sent up a great splash of dust
beneath the horse's nose, making him leap as if to hurdle a fence.
The rifle was automatic; Gale needed only to pull the trigger. He
saw now that the raiders behind were in line. Swiftly he worked
the trigger. Suddenly the leading horse leaped convulsively, not
up nor aside, but straight ahead, and then he crashed to the ground
throwing his rider like a catapult, and then slid and rolled. He
half got up, fell back, and kicked; but his rider never moved.
The other raiders sawed the reins of plunging steeds and whirled to
escape the unseen battery.
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