“Who d’ye mean by ‘they’?” hoarsely cried Abner, throwing forward his rifle and fingering the lever nervously.
“It’s Stanley, and he’s running like mad!” shouted Bub, sliding down the trunk with reckless haste. “And a quarter of a mile behind him is Big Nick, his face covered with something like blood.”
“Are they aiming this way?” choked Abner, tearing down a slope.
“Yes,” replied Bub, “but we’d best separate so as to bring them between us. I’ll branch off to the right.” Suiting his action to the word Bub turned at right angles and put several rods between himself and Abner before continuing his onward flight.
Then both were horrified to hear the half-breed’s rifle explode thrice with venomous sharpness.
“The dirty hound is shooting at him,” wailed Abner, straining to increase his already swift gait. “O if he should hit him when we are so near. Shoot, Bub! Shoot! Let him have it the first sight ye git of him, and aim to kill!” yelled Abner, his voice sinking into a snarling sound as he plunged onward and found no elevation from which he could command a view of the race.
