It was no time for argument. I fired and
killed him. Then, leaping on my horse, I dug the spurs into his sides,
and back down the trail we went, over the rocks and rough ground toward
safety.
[Illustration: IT WAS NO TIME FOR ARGUMENT. I FIRED, AND KILLED HIM]
My peril was far from past. At the sound of the shot the six men in the
dugout tumbled forth in hot haste. They stopped an instant at the scene
of the shooting, possibly to revive the man I had stunned and to learn
from him what had happened.
They were too wise to mount their horses, knowing that, afoot, they
could make better time over the rocky country than I could on
horseback. Steadily I heard them gaining, and soon made up my mind that
if I was to evade them at all I must abandon my horse.
Jumping off, I gave him a smart slap with the butt of my revolver which
sent him down the valley. I turned and began to scramble up the
mountainside.
I had climbed hardly forty feet when I heard them pass, following the
sound of my horse's feet. I dodged behind a tree as they went by, and
when I heard them firing farther down the trail I worked my way up the
mountainside.
It was twenty-five miles to Horseshoe Station, and very hard traveling
the first part of the way. But I got to the station, just before
daylight, weary and footsore, but exceedingly thankful.
Tired as I was, I woke up the men at the station and told them of my
adventure.
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