Comprehending for the first time the real intention of the men, Wall instinctively took to his heels to save his life, and started towards his dugout tent: He flew down the hill as if carried on the air, the two men pursuing almost as fast. It was a race for life—a curious interruption of the mild Sunday scene which spread out before them under the bright light of the autumn skies. Even as Wall ran, the blood spurted in torrents from the ugly wound in his neck, marking the path he trod so plainly that he might have been tracked by means of it, had not the pursuers been so close as to need no guide to the course the man had taken. One of them had come on horseback to the place, and he left his animal standing while he should pursue his murderous task. They followed closely in the footsteps of Wall, whose path led over a rugged hillside, down a steep bluff, and into the bed of Dry creek below. He ran so rapidly at first that the shots which his bloody-handed pursuers sent after him were of no avail in bringing him to a halt. It is not believed that either one of the bloody bullets except the first hit the mark, and it began to look as if the poor man would make good his escape. He was evidently bent upon getting to his cabin, where once arrived he had fire arms stored with which he would be amply able to protect himself even against double odds. The murderers apprehended his intentions, and bent every energy to cut off the retreat. Finding that the leaden missiles failed to accomplish their purpose, they quit shooting and doubled their pace.
As they increased their speed, Wall evidently slackened his. The run was a long one, and he was losing a great deal of blood. He had, however, reached the bed of the gulch, and was nearing his home, when his foot struck a boulder, and he fell prone on the creek bottom, the murderers sweeping up behind him like bloodhounds in pursuit of a fugitive slave.
“Good!” exclaimed one of them, as they saw their prey fall so nearly within their grasp.
“I guess the d——d scoundrel’s done for,” replied the other, as they slackened their pace to draw a long breath and be prepared for a final struggle.
But a moment more served to change this last-expressed opinion. Wall was greatly weakened by the loss of blood and the fatigue of the race, but he managed to scramble to his feet once more, and to stagger onward in a zigzag run up the creek bottom. The assassins had come up to within twenty steps of him, and could easily be heard.
“Stop there, d——n you, or we will fill you full of lead,” one of them shouted to him. “No more of this foolishness; you may as well surrender on the spot.”
Realizing that further flight was hopeless; that his strength was gone and that he was unarmed, and feeling perhaps that he might save his life, Wall halted, and Witherill and Wight came up.
As they approached Wall he turned towards them and demanded an explanation of their strange conduct.
“What does it mean?” he demanded to know.
“Mean? It means that you are having too good a time of it—that you are making too much money for a d——d old snoozer who knows no better how to use it and enjoy it than you do. We want it. We want your sheep, your money, every thing you’ve got, d——n you!”