He
had turned again in the saddle, and as though the episode were at an end,
restored his rifle to its case, but when they poured in another volley
about him, he swung sharply roundabout again, gun in hand. Once more the
rifle went to his shoulder, and this time the bullet knocked a puff of dust
into the very nostrils of the buckskin. Retherton reined in with an oath.
"He's been warn in' me, boys," he called. "That devil has the range like he
was sitting in a rockin' chair shooting at a tin-can. He's warnin' us back
to the rest of the gang. And damned if we ain't goin'!"
It was quite patent that he was right, for three bullets sent on a line for
one horse, and each of them closer, could mean only one thing. They checked
their horses, and in a moment the rest of the posse was clattering around
them.
"It don't make no difference," called Retherton, "savin' in time. Maybe
he'll last to Wilsonville, but he can't stay in three miles when we hang
onto him with fresh hosses. The black is runnin' on nothin' but guts right
now."
Chapter XXXV.
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