"Can't do it," came back the reply. "The horse won't stop!"
"Jump off—fall off—get off some way!"
"All right! here goes!"
In another moment Professor Scotch, for it really was that individual, flung himself from the back of the animal he had ridden, struck the ground, rolled over and over like a ball, and lay still within thirty feet of Frank, groaning dolefully.
In the meantime, Al Bushnell was working his Winchester in a manner that was simply amazing, for a steady stream of fire seemed to pour from the muzzle of the weapon, and the cracking of the weapon echoed through the streets of Huejugilla el Alto like the rattling fire from a line of infantry.
After that first shot Bushnell lowered the muzzle of his weapon, as, in most cases at short range, his motto was to "shoot low," for he well knew more lead could be wasted by shooting too high than in any other manner.
In about three seconds he had thrown the pursuing bandits into the utmost confusion, for they had never before encountered such a reception in Huejugilla el Alto, and it was the last thing they had expected. With all possible haste, they reined about and took to flight, hearing the bullets whistling about them, or feeling their horses leap madly at the sting of lead or go plunging to the ground.
The inhabitants of the town had fled into their houses before the rush of the bandits, so there was little danger that any of Bushnell's bullets would reach innocent persons.
The confusion and rout of the bandits was brought about in a few seconds, and Bushnell was heard to mutter:
"One white man is good fer a hundred onery Greasers any time! Ther derned skunks hain't got a blamed bit of sand!"