The high-calibered weapon barked sharply, a steel-tipped bullet sloughed through a chaya column and from behind it there sounded one broken cry.
"Got him," said Jackson grimly. "Ah!"
Sheridan was pumping lead at a horseman on a piebald pony, a man clad in a striped serape and wearing a Mexican sun sombrero who had spurred out of a draw beyond the chayas and was heading towards the gap in the range, dodging behind clumps of cactus, deliberately weaving a zigzag course to escape Sheridan's accuracy of fire. Behind him pelted a riderless horse, heavy, tapidero'd stirrups swinging, reins trailing, the brute's ewe neck held high to keep them off the ground.
The man's dodging had not given Sheridan a fair shot. In a few bounds he was beyond all pistol range. Jackson, cursing as he waited for his chance, fired at last with the rifle. The sombrero flew from the fugitive's head and went spinning through the air. Next moment the rider plunged down into another draw, the second horse following, and neither of them saw him again.
"Missed by a mile," said Jackson disgustedly. "Why in hell didn't I stick to my six-gun? On'y I wanted to be sure an' bore through that chaya. There's one Greaser gone to his God the other side of that. An' the other one was Pedro, damn him."
"I thought it was Pedro. I wish we could have got that horse."
"Juanita lied to us after all, Sheridan."
"I don't think so. She said she didn't hear all. I fancy Hollister posted those two here in case we
