The rope was removed.
“The other!”
Pete and Farrish slipped off the lariat that remained noosed around the outlaw’s neck, and stepped back.
For some seconds there was no sound, no motion, no sign of any design on the part of Sunnysides. Then, with the swiftness and surprise of a flash of powder in the dark, a shocking thing occurred. Without a preliminary movement, either of lunging or bucking or leaping to one side, or any of the expected tactics, Sunnysides, with incredible suddenness, reared straight up into the air, threw himself over, and fell on his back, pinning Haig to the ground beneath him.
Before any of the men could move, the horse rolled over sprawling, scrambled to his feet, and charged at 142 the fence. There was a crash and the sound of splintering wood. The top plank fell, broken in two jagged pieces, and the horse’s forefeet were over the second plank. But before he could leap again, Curley had caught the bridle rein, and swung the outlaw’s head around, holding him there until Bill had leaned over the broken fence and roped the forelegs once more. After a moment of furious struggle, Sunnysides appeared to realize that it was useless; and thus the two men held him, with his forefeet still hanging outside the fence, while they turned their eyes toward Haig.
Farrish and the Indian knelt at his side. He lay quite still, unconscious, and for a moment they thought him dead. Pete put his head down on Haig’s breast, and listened. Then he rose to his feet.
“Whisky!” he muttered, and ran toward the stable.
In two minutes he was back, bearing a flask, which he uncorked as he ran. Forcing the mouth of it between Haig’s lips, he let the scorching liquor trickle down the throat until the flask was half emptied. Then he poured some of the whisky in the palm of his hand, and rubbed it on Haig’s face and bared breast and wrists, while Farrish, in his turn, ran to the stable and brought a lap robe, which he folded and placed under Haig’s head.
They waited helplessly, without speech. At the fence, Bill and Curley clung to their ropes. Sunnysides, his forefeet still projecting over the plank, and the saddle hanging lopsided from his back, had his head drawn back so far that he could see the group in the middle of the corral. His eyes were bloodshot, foam dripped from his mouth, the breath came whistling through his half-shut windpipe.