“What’s his idear?” says Monkey Mike. “Where’s he takin’ her?”
“Bee line fer the reservation,” says Buckshot.
“Spanish church there. Makin’ her elope.”
“Wo-o-ow!” It was Sheriff Bergin. We’d got beyond the Bar Y ranch-house, and ’d gone down a slope into a kinda draw, like, and then up the far side. This ’d brung us out on to pretty high ground, and we could see, about a mile off, two hosses gallopin’ side by side. “The gal’s bronc is lame!” says the sheriff. “And Pedro’s lickin’ it. We got him! Pull you’ guns.”
Guns. I got weaker’n a cat. And, all at the same time, the other fellers remembered–and such a howl. We had guns, a-course–but they was filled with blanks!
We slacked a little.
“Is that greaser loaded?” ast Bergin.
“Give him blanks myself,” says Bill.
Ahaid again, faster ’n ever. Carlota’s hoss was shore givin’ out–goin’ on three feet, in little jumps like a jackrabbit. Pedro wasn’t able t’ git her on to his bronc, ’r else he was feard the critter wouldn’t carry double. Anyhow, he was behind her, everlastin’ly usin’ his quirt–and losin’ ground.
Pretty soon, we was so nigh we made out t’ hear him. And when he looked back, we seen his face was white, fer all he’s a greaser. Then, of a suddent, he come short, half wheeled, waited till we was closter, and fired.