“Scotty’s been handcuffed,” Morris explained, when he saw these movements. “I can tell by the way he rides.”
Suddenly Max exclaimed, “They’re running right against the others’ guns,” and leaping over the wall he hurried, revolver in hand, straight toward the Aurora’s dump.
Divining his intention, the others followed him, stumbling over the slushy and rolling stones in hot haste, and rushed up the face of the enemy’s embankment like a storming party. They had almost as far to go as the others, and must make haste, breath or no breath. It was well they did so, for the first thing that met their eyes when they had reached the top of the dump, was Old Bob and Stevens lying behind two logs, guns in hand, ready to shoot the instant the approaching party should get clear of the last thicket.
Waiting for no orders or permission, Morris drew bead on the nearest man and fired, and with an awful cry Stevens sprang to his feet and fell back a senseless heap on the ground.
Bob, thunder-struck, whirled round to find the three men above him and all hope gone. Dropping on his knees in abject terror, and green with fright, the miserable poltroon shrieked for mercy, and he received the boon with the contempt of his foes not only, but of his friends, for the captured Scotty at once began pouring upon his head the most bitter revilings.
Except to take away his gun and give him a kick, nobody else paid any attention to him, for all were hurrying to congratulate Lennox upon his safe return, to welcome Mr. Anderson, to be introduced to Buckeye Jim and the stranger, who proved to be a Deputy Sheriff from Denver with a warrant for Scotty’s arrest, and to clap each other on the back over the fortunate escapes and successes which had marked the last five minutes with so much excitement.
Until this hand-shaking had been gone through with, no one thought of the wounded man. The time had not been long, however, and at first it was more needful to make sure of the living than to attend to the dead.
But was he dead?
“Na,” replied Sandy, who was the first to kneel by his side and place a hand within his shirt-bosom to feel if any life remained. “His hairt beats.”
“Glad to hear he’s got one; where is he wounded?” asked Morris, also kneeling by his side. “Oh, here,” pointing to where the blood was slowly dripping from the left arm of the prostrate and unconscious man.