The belt slipped from the horn as the horse was falling, and Billy succeeded in throwing himself a little to one side. One leg, however, was pinned beneath the animal's body and the force of the fall jarred the revolver from Billy's hand to drop just beyond his reach.
His carbine was in its boot at the horse's side, and the animal was lying upon it. Instantly Bridge rode to his side and covered him with his revolver.
“Don't move,” he commanded, “or I'll be under the painful necessity of terminating your earthly endeavors right here and now.”
“Well, for the love o' Mike!” cried the fallen bandit. “You?”
Bridge was off his horse the instant that the familiar voice sounded in his ears.
“Billy!” he exclaimed. “Why—Billy—was it you who robbed the bank?”
Even as he spoke Bridge was busy easing the weight of the dead pony from Billy's leg.
“Anything broken?” he asked as the bandit struggled to free himself.
“Not so you could notice it,” replied Billy, and a moment later he was on his feet. “Say, bo,” he added, “it's a mighty good thing you dropped little pinto here, for I'd a sure got you my next shot. Gee! it makes me sweat to think of it. But about this bank robbin' business. You can't exactly say that I robbed a bank. That money was the enemy's resources, an' I just nicked their resources. That's war. That ain't robbery. I ain't takin' it for myself—it's for the cause—the cause o' poor, bleedin' Mexico,” and Billy grinned a large grin.
“You took it for Pesita?” asked Bridge.