"Queek, m's'u, dees way!" a hand grasped his wrist and the cowpuncher
felt himself drawn swiftly toward the door. From all sides sounded the
scuffling of straining men who breathed heavily as they fought in the
blackness.
A thin red flame cut the air and a shot rang sharp. Someone screamed and
a string of Spanish curses blended into the hubbub of turmoil.
"De hosses, queek, m's'u!"
The cool air of the street fanned the Texan's face as he leaped across
the sidewalk, and vaulted into the saddle. The next moment the big black
was pounding the roadway neck and neck with another, smaller horse upon
which the half-breed swayed in the saddle with the ease and grace of the
loose-rein rider born.
It was broad daylight when the cowpuncher opened his eyes in an arroyo
deep among the hills far, far from Las Vegas. He rubbed his forehead
tenderly, and crawling to a spring a few feet distant, buried his face in
the tiny pool and drank deeply of the refreshing liquid. Very
deliberately he dried his face on a blue handkerchief, and fumbled in his
pockets for papers and tobacco. As he blew the grey smoke from his
nostrils he watched the half-breed who sat nearby industriously splicing
a pair of broken bridle reins.
"Did you get that ticket, Bat?" he asked, with a hand pressed tightly
against his aching forehead.
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