They flattened themselves along their
horses' necks at infinite risk to their necks in case of a stumble, and
every spur in the crowd was dripping red; horseflesh could do no more, and
still the black drew ahead inches and inches with every stride.
If they could not turn him with their speed another way remained, and by
swift agreement the four best horses were sent ahead at full speed while
the other riders caught their reins over the pommels and jerked out their
rifles; a quartet of bullets went screaming after the black horse.
Indeed, there was little enough chance that a placed shot would go home,
but their magazines were full, and a chance hit would do the work and kill
both man and horse at that rate of speed. Dan Barry knew it, and when the
bullets sang he whirled in the saddle and swept out his rifle from its case
in the same movement. That yellow devil of anger flared in his eyes as he
pitched the butt to his shoulder and straight into the circle of the sight
rode Johnny Gasney of St. Vincent. Another volley whistled about him and
his finger trembled on the trigger.
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