He seized the hand that held the weapon, and there was a three-cornered fight for its possession.
Broome was on his feet, now, trying to find a point of attack. Gard was doing more than fight for the gun. He was gradually forcing activities in the direction of the horses. If only he could shake free for an instant, and make a run for it! He meant to secure Broome’s mount. In a dash for freedom he felt that the odds would be with him.
Broome had by now got into the struggle again, and hurled himself, from behind, upon the man he hated. Gard felt the fellow’s great hands closing about his throat, when suddenly, the revolver for which he was fighting was discharged.
Broome sank back with a yell and a moment later, somewhere, far out on the plain, another revolver cracked.
“Somebody’s coming!” the fellow called “Hank” gasped out, wrenching free. “We’d better git!”
The sense of approaching danger sobered him, for the instant, and he sprang toward his horse. The other fellow would have followed, but Gard held him fast. He, too, realized that help was at hand, and the realization renewed his strength. A moment later, with wild yells, and a rush of swift hoofs, two riders dashed up.
Hank threw himself into the saddle. Manuel Gordo was quicker than he, however, and bore him to the ground with one sweep of a heavy arm, while Sago Irish, Manuel’s mate, dashed to Gard’s assistance. His ready rope had already secured the fellow called “Jim,” when the buckboard appeared, Sandy lashing his broncos to a mad run.
The stars were out, lighting the sky with a brilliance that shamed the lantern’s yellow glow, and Gard’s heart leaped when he saw the lithe figure that sprang from the back-seat, as Sandy Larch brought the horses to their haunches.
The foreman was already hurrying to his friend, but he stopped short as Gard, never seeing him, turned toward Helen. Mrs. Hallard, too, had fallen behind, and the two stood face to face in the bright starlight.
“Helen!”