“Then, go!”
“Bang! Bang!! Bang!!!” went both pistols together.
The reports came with a rapidity not to be counted. Cook got a crease in the face—a mere wound of the flesh. Watkins blundered forward with a bullet in his side.
Rawlins ran out. His experience taught him all at a look. Hastily examining Cook, he discovered that his hurt was nothing serious. The others carried Watkins into the house.
“Take my pony saddled at the fence, Jack,” said Rawlins, “an' pull your freight. This yere Watkins is goin' to die. You've planted him.”
“Which I shorely hopes I has!” said Cook, with bitter cheerfulness. “I ain't got no use for cattle of his brand; none whatever!”
Cook took Rawlins's pony. When he paused, the pony hung his head while his flanks steamed and quivered. And no marvel! That pony was one hundred miles from the last corn, as he cooled his nervous muzzle in the Rio San Simon.