a détour, and overstepped 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 grass against the back of the recumbent 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.”
