The one who had been thrown made a flying tackle for his horse's neck as the animal scrambled to its feet. Rawlins had a fantastic glimpse of him, spread against the animal's side, one hand on its mane, one heel over the saddle, as it dashed wildly around the house and out of sight.
Much to Rawlins' satisfaction the free horse ridden by the shooting man broke away to follow it, but only to appear on the farther side of the confused bunch in a moment, its rider to go right on shooting with the same mean persistency as before.
Two of the men emerged from the tangle now, leaving the third hung up at the end of his lariat, which he seemed unable to untie or cut. They began to shoot, nothing more substantial between them and Rawlins than a little greasewood bush about shoulder high and not wide enough to hide a post. Lucky for Rawlins their horses were out of hand, pitching and dashing around, wild to be away out of there. The man who had stood at the door rode in and cut the rope that held, freeing all hands to the unequal fight.
It was time to get back to cover. Rawlins realized that when the four of them began to shoot, spreading out to encircle him, their purpose deflected from the destruction of his property to himself. He crouched behind the bush, holding his fire while he figured the chance of dashing back to the buffalo wallow.
He had come too far in his first hot charge to get back to that shelter. They were getting mean, their bullets were cutting close, for the horses were steadying down to control, the dust settling, giving them a clear drive. The haystacks were too far off to do him
