“Hurry up,” added Tom Wagstaff, “and we’ll follow you.”
“Come, I reckon you’d better hurry,” added the figure at the side of the road.
“All right, here I come!”
The New Englander sprang outward, and as he did so he flung both arms about the neck of the rogue and bore him to the earth.
CHAPTER XII—THE VICTIM OF A MISTAKE.
Ethan Durrell may have been verdant-looking and peculiar in his ways, but he was one of the pluckiest of men. It was impossible for him to know whether the scamp who held up the stage had any companions or not, until the matter was proven by taking a risk which, if he went the wrong way, was sure to be fatal. With this uncertainty, and without so much as a single weapon at his command, he leaped upon the unsuspecting ruffian, and, throwing both arms around his neck, bore him to the ground.
The attack was wholly unexpected by the fellow, who was standing with loaded revolver pointed toward the stage, ready to fire on the instant he observed anything suspicious. It was necessary for the New Englander to spring down from the front of the coach, but every one except himself thought his intention was to land in front of the other and there submit to the inevitable. The quavering voice of Durrell had convinced his friends that he was as timid as any of them in the presence of real danger.
He closed his arms like a vise, so as to pinion those of the stranger against his sides. The impetus of his own body drove the man backward, and before he could recover Ethan tripped and threw him with such violence that his hat fell off and an exclamation was forced from him.
He uttered fierce execrations and strove desperately to get his arm free that he might use his weapon on his assailant, but there was no possibility of shaking off the embrace of the wiry New Englander, who hung on like grim death.
“Bill, you and the boys watch out for the other fellers,” called Durrell, as he struggled with the man; “if any of them show themselves, shoot! I’ll ’tend to this one.”