Part 26 (1/2)
”It looks like the man we saw coming over,” remarked Miss Derwent.
As the distance between them lessened, the district attorney suddenly pulled up his team sharply, with his eyes fixed upon the advancing horseman. That individual had drawn a Winchester from its scabbard on his saddle and thrown it over his arm.
”Now I know you, Mexico Sam!” muttered Littlefield to himself. ”It was you who shook your rattles in that gentle epistle.”
Mexico Sam did not leave things long in doubt. He had a nice eye in all matters relating to firearms, so when he was within good rifle range, but outside of danger from No. 8 shot, he threw up his Winchester and opened fire upon the occupants of the buckboard.
The first shot cracked the back of the seat within the two-inch s.p.a.ce between the shoulders of Littlefield and Miss Derwent. The next went through the dashboard and Littlefield's trouser leg.
The district attorney hustled Nancy out of the buck-board to the ground. She was a little pale, but asked no questions. She had the frontier instinct that accepts conditions in an emergency without superfluous argument. They kept their guns in hand, and Littlefield hastily gathered some handfuls of cartridges from the pasteboard box on the seat and crowded them into his pockets.
”Keep behind the horses, Nan,” he commanded. ”That fellow is a ruffian I sent to prison once. He's trying to get even. He knows our shot won't hurt him at that distance.”
”All right, Bob,” said Nancy steadily. ”I'm not afraid. But you come close, too. Whoa, Bess; stand still, now!”
She stroked Bess's mane. Littlefield stood with his gun ready, praying that the desperado would come within range.
But Mexico Sam was playing his vendetta along safe lines. He was a bird of different feather from the plover. His accurate eye drew an imaginary line of circ.u.mference around the area of danger from bird-shot, and upon this line lie rode. His horse wheeled to the right, and as his victims rounded to the safe side of their equine breast-work he sent a ball through the district attorney's hat. Once he miscalculated in making a detour, and over-stepped his margin.
Littlefield's gun flashed, and Mexico Sam ducked his head to the harmless patter of the shot. A few of them stung his horse, which pranced promptly back to the safety line.
The desperado fired again. A little cry came from Nancy Derwent.
Littlefield whirled, with blazing eyes, and saw the blood trickling down her cheek.
”I'm not hurt, Bob--only a splinter struck me. I think he hit one of the wheel-spokes.”
”Lord!” groaned Littlefield. ”If I only had a charge of buckshot!”
The ruffian got his horse still, and took careful aim. Fly gave a snort and fell in the harness, struck in the neck. Bess, now disabused of the idea that plover were being fired at, broke her traces and galloped wildly away. Mexican Sam sent a ball neatly through the fulness of Nancy Derwent's shooting jacket.
”Lie down--lie down!” snapped Littlefield. ”Close to the horse--flat on the ground--so.” He almost threw her upon the gra.s.s against the back of the rec.u.mbent Fly. Oddly enough, at that moment the words of the Mexican girl returned to his mind:
”If the life of the girl you love is ever in danger, remember Rafael Ortiz.”
Littlefield uttered an exclamation.
”Open fire on him, Nan, across the horse's back. Fire as fast as you can! You can't hurt him, but keep him dodging shot for one minute while I try to work a little scheme.”
Nancy gave a quick glance at Littlefield, and saw him take out his pocket-knife and open it. Then she turned her face to obey orders, keeping up a rapid fire at the enemy.
Mexico Sam waited patiently until this innocuous fusillade ceased.
He had plenty of time, and he did not care to risk the chance of a bird-shot in his eye when it could be avoided by a little caution.
He pulled his heavy Stetson low down over his face until the shots ceased. Then he drew a little nearer, and fired with careful aim at what he could see of his victims above the fallen horse.
Neither of them moved. He urged his horse a few steps nearer. He saw the district attorney rise to one knee and deliberately level his shotgun. He pulled his hat down and awaited the harmless rattle of the tiny pellets.
The shotgun blazed with a heavy report. Mexico Sam sighed, turned limp all over, and slowly fell from his horse--a dead rattlesnake.