“I’ll show ye, me laddy; I’m going there as sure as me name’s Mickey O’Rooney, and me.”
“Yer ain’t going to try any such thing; if yer do, I’ll bore yer.”
But the Irishman had already given the word to his horse. The latter bounded forward, passing by the dumbfounded hunter, who raised his rifle, angered enough to tumble the reckless fellow from the saddle. But, of course, he could not do that, and he stared in a sort of a wondering amazement at the course of the Irishman. The latter, instead of seeking to conceal his identity, seemed to take every means to make it known. He put the mustang on a dead run, sat bolt upright on his back, and Sut even fancied that he could see that his cap was set a little to one side, so as to give himself a saucy, defiant air to whomsoever might look upon him.
“Skulp me! if he ain’t a good rider!” exclaimed the scout, anxious to assist him in the trouble with which he was certain to environ himself. “But he is riding to his death. Thar! what next? He’s crazy.”
This exclamation was caused by seeing Mickey lift his cap and swing it about his head, emitting at the same time a number of yells such as no Apache among them all could have surpassed.
“Whoop! whoop! ye bloody spalpeens! it’s meself, Mickey O’Rooney, that’s on the war-path, and do ye kape out of the way, or there’ll be some heads broken.”
Could madness further go? Instead of trying to avoid an encounter with the Apaches, the belligerent Irishman seemed actually to be seeking it. And there was no danger of his being disappointed. Certain of this, Sut Simpson hurried on after him, for the purpose of giving what assistance he could in the desperate encounter soon to take place.
Mickey was still yelling in his defiant way, with the long, lank figure of the scout trotting along in the rear, when one, two, three, fully a half dozen Apaches sprang from the ground ahead of the Irishman, and, as if they divined his purpose, all began converging toward the opening which was the goal of the fugitive. But it would have made no difference to the latter if a score had appeared across his path. He hammered the ribs of his mustang with his heels, urging him to the highest possible speed of which he was capable. Then he replaced his cap, added an extra yell or two, raised his rifle and sighted best as he could at the nearest Indian. When he pulled the trigger, he missed the mark probably twenty feet, for it was a kind of business to which Mickey was unaccustomed.
The Apaches threw themselves across his path, in the hope of checking the mustang so as to secure the capture of the rider; but the animal abated not a tittle, and strained every nerve to carry his owner through the terrible gauntlet. One of the redskins, fearful that the fugitive was going to escape in spite of all they could do, raised his gun, with the purpose of tumbling him to the ground. Before he could do anything, he dropped his gun, threw up his arms with a howl, and tumbled over backward. Sut Simpson was near enough at hand to send in the shot that wound up his career.
By this time, something like a sober second thought came to Mickey, who saw that his horse comprehended what was expected of him, and needing do further direction or urging. He realized, furthermore, that he had, by the impetuous movement of the animal, thrown all his foes in the rear, and they being unmounted, and anxious to check his flight, were certain to give him the contents of their rifles. Accordingly he threw himself forward upon the neck of the steed, scarcely a second before the crack of the rifles were heard in every direction. The hurtling bullets passed fearfully near, and more than once Mickey believed he was struck. But his horse kept on with unabated speed, and a minute after thundered up the slope, and he and his rider were beyond the reach of all their bullets.