Rock knew precisely how far that thicket of berry brush extended. Their saddle horses would be tied in that. Whether the second man was scared, or merely acting on the prudent theory that he who shoots and rides away will live to shoot another day, did not matter to Rock. He wanted them both. He leaped for his carbine, snatched it, and ran for the brush. One downward glance, as he passed, showed him a dead man. The next second he was in the thicket. A few quick strides took him out the other side.
Straight for the next brush patch, over an intervening grass flat of two hundred yards, a sorrel horse was stretching like a hound in full flight, his rider crouched in the saddle, looking back over one shoulder.
Rock dropped flat on his stomach, propped his elbows, and drew a bead. He hated to kill a horse, but he wanted that man alive, if he could get him. The sorrel ran at a slight angle. Rock could just see his shoulder. He held for that, low on the body, just ahead of the cinch. He was a fair shot with a six-shooter, deadly with a rifle. And he was neither hurried nor excited. His forefinger tightened as deliberately as if he had been shooting at a tomato can.
The horse went down, as if his feet had been snatched out from under him in mid-air, which was precisely what Rock had banked on. His rider, sitting loose, was catapulted in an arc. His body struck the earth with a thud. And Rock ran for his man. There was no craft in that sprawl. The fall had stunned him as effectually as if he had been slung from a train at thirty miles an hour.
He wasn’t unconscious, merely dazed. But Rock had a gun in his face before he got control of his senses. And, after disarming him, Rock did exactly what he would have done with a wild steer he wanted to keep harmless. He hog-tied him, hands behind his back, one foot drawn tight up to the lashed wrists, with a hair macarte off the dead horse.
Incidentally, Rock examined the sorrel horse, which bore the Maltese Cross. Rock didn’t know the man and had never seen him before. He was none of the riders Rock had seen either at the Cross round-up, or in the vigilance committee that morning.
Rock stood looking down at the man reflectively, for a time. Then he took him by the armpits and dragged him over the grass back to the very thicket where the ambush had been held. He walked through to take a look at the body on the other side. Rock did not know him, either. But he took his weapons and a short search of the thicket presently located a saddled horse securely tied.
This beast also carried a Maltese Cross. Rock took him by the reins and went back to his prisoner.
CHAPTER XII—STACK DECIDES TO TALK
The crimson stream kept trickling down over Rock’s face. He had no pain except a burning sensation on the top of his head, but the crimson flow annoyed him. He finally hit upon the expedient of stuffing the black silk handkerchief which he habitually wore about his neck, into the crown of his hat, adding thereto a smaller one from his pocket. Then he jammed the crown tightly down on his head to absorb the flow. That done, he rolled himself a cigarette. Then he stood looking speculatively down at his captive.