Dade's riata, tight as a fiddle-string at first, slackened as the buckskin, his breath coming in snorts, surged alongside.

Jack leaned again--this time to snatch the ivory-handled revolver from the holster on Dade's saddle.

As well as he could with his legs held rigid by the rope that tied his ankles, he twisted in the saddle and sent leaden answer to the spiteful barking of the guns that called upon them to halt.
[Illustration: He twisted in the saddle and sent leaden answer to the spiteful barking of the guns.] Davis he shot, and saw him sway and fall flat, with a smoking gun in his hand.

Another crumpled forward; and Shorty, just getting painfully upon his feet, he sent into the sand again to stay; for his skill with small arms was something uncanny to witness, and his temper was up and turning him into a savage like the rest.
But the range was rapidly growing to rifle-length, and death fell short of his enemies after Shorty went down.

When he saw his fourth bullet kick up a harmless little geyser of sand two rods in advance of the agitated crowd, he left off and turned to his friend.
"I thought you were drunk," he observed inanely, as is common to men who have just come through situations for which no words have been coined.
"You ain't the only one who made that mistake," Dade retorted grimly, and looked back.