Pete had seen the expression on Haig’s face, and did not like it. But he hesitated to utter what was in his mind.
“Why?” repeated Haig.
“I think you better wait,” was all that Pete could say.
“Hell!” cried Haig. “Get your lariat! And be quick about it!”
He had read Pete’s thought; his ill-humor had evidently shown itself in his face; but the caution only whetted his purpose. Throwing off his coat as he went, he passed through the rear door of the barn, and climbed into the outlaw’s corral, followed by Farrish, Curly, and Pete.
Sunnysides received them with suspicion. His head was high, his nostrils were dilated, his tail swished slowly, like a tiger’s. One forefoot was raised a little, resting on the toe, and the muscles of his shoulders quivered under the glossy hide. He had fully recovered from the effects of his rough treatment on the road, and his skin shone with a satin-like luster in the morning sun.
There was a moment’s pause, while Haig and the others looked at the horse, and he at them.
“Now then, Farrish! Pete!” commanded Haig.
And the battle began. Farrish and Pete turn by turn flung their lariats at the horse’s head and feet, but time after time he dodged, and ducked, and capered away from the whirling noose, or wriggled out of the coil as it tightened around him.