CHAPTER VIII
DUDLEY LEADS THE GAUCHOS
"He is better mounted than I am, and there is bound to be a fight," thought Dudley as the minutes flew by and Giono gained rapidly upon him, leaving his two comrades some yards in rear. "I had better keep a careful watch on his revolver, and if he lifts it I will fire."
They were close to the edge of the rancho now, and half a mile ahead the rails of the corral could be seen. But though our hero strained his eyes in that direction there was not a single horseman. Nothing but the corral broke the flat expanse of waving pampas. He was alone, and must look to himself for safety.
Crack! As he stared ahead there came the sharp report of a pistol, and on glancing behind he saw a wreath of smoke blowing away from the muzzle of Giono's revolver.
"Missed," thought Dudley, with no little satisfaction. "The range is too long as yet, and even if he hits me the bullet will do no great harm. But he is pulling up fast. I wonder whether, if I hit him, the others will give up the chase?"
Crack! Once again the report came to his ear, and instinctively he crouched lower as a bullet hissed over his head. He was within range then, and must act if he was to escape at all. Keeping low on the back of his horse, with his weight thrown as much forward as possible, he glanced round again, his head twisted to the right. Giono was standing in his stirrups, his eye blazing with wrath, and fierce determination written on every line of his ugly face. He lifted the weapon again, took very careful aim, and was on the point of pressing the trigger when Dudley gripped the butt of his revolver and sent a bullet flying behind. And here again his happy knack of shooting, the quick eye and ready hand which he possessed, stood him in good stead. Giono gave a shout, clapped the hand which held the reins to his chest, and instantly crumpled up on the bow of his saddle. He swayed from side to side, and made frantic efforts to cling to his seat. His spurs almost met beneath his horse's belly, while the rowels dug into the poor beast, making it gallop even harder. Then this powerful gaucho, hardened to exposure and fatigue, recovered his strength and threw off the sudden weakness caused by his wound. There was a thin streak of blood at the corner of his mouth as he sat up with a jerk, and the scowl on his face had increased in intensity. Without lifting his weapon he pointed the muzzle at the lad in front of him and pulled the trigger.
Dudley learned some ten minutes later what happened after that momentous shot, for within two seconds he was unconscious. The bullet had missed him entirely, but flying low had passed between the heels of his horse, and had struck behind the knee of one of the fore legs, bringing the gallant beast toppling on to its head.
"When the señor is ready it will be as well to move on," he suddenly heard a voice say. "The señor is better. He has fallen heavily, and the ground was hard. Pepito, bring your water sack, and we will sprinkle his face and so refresh him."
The words sounded as if they had been spoken yards and yards away. They came to Dudley's ears in a strangely blurred fashion, failing to rouse him, and leaving him to puzzle over their meaning.
"The ground was hard, and he had fallen heavily. Who had fallen heavily?" he wondered. "They are joking. Perhaps they want to disturb me. But I won't move. I'm very comfortable, thank you!"