“They haven’t had time to go far,” said 282 Zach Collis, “and if we ride hard we shall soon run ’em down.”
“But is it best to try that?” was the question of Ward Burrell, or Old Bronze.
Gleeson, who was naturally looked upon as the leader, shook his head. “They’ll brain him the minute there’s a chance of losing him.”
“But why did they take him off and spare me?” asked the astonished Avon.
“They thought you was dead and so didn’t bother with you.”
“Why did they make him prisoner instead of doing what they had been trying so long to do––kill him?”
“He’s of more account than you; he was the chap they was after, and not you.”
“It looked for a time as though they had designs on me.”
The words of the Texan acted like a damper on the ardor of his companions, who were eager to hasten to the rescue of their captain. Had they not known that he was wounded, it is likely they would have insisted upon an instant and vigorous pursuit; but none failed 283 to see the truth of Gleeson’s utterances, though it was only a few minutes before that he was as impatient as any of them.
“Boys,” said he, observing that they were looking at him, “I think you know what all this means as well as I do. If we had ’em out on the plains where there was a fair chance, or if the cap could put in some licks for himself, it would be different; but they’re among them hills over there; they’re watching us now; we can’t make a move that they won’t know it the minute it’s started; they’ve got it on us, and just as soon as they see there’s any show of losing the cap they’ll finish him.”