Suddenly it leaped through the air like a great snake. The runner saw the shadow of it, and with a cry that they heard, half turned and threw out his arms to ward it off. The loop was too large, the cowman missed it, and as the Indian pulled up in a cloud of dust, he whipped in the slack, and the noose tightened fairly about the renegade’s waist. An instant after, however, the second pony, plunging ahead of the Indian’s, threw the rider forward, slackening the lariat. In a twinkle the cowman had loosened the noose, and was wriggling out of it. He had freed one foot before the Indian had recovered himself. Then with a terrific yank the horseman snapped in the slack, the cowman’s feet flew from under him, and with one foot taut in the air, caught at the ankle, he lay cursing and shaking an impotent fist.
As Alex and the oiler ran forward the Indian sat on his horse like a statue, holding the lariat taut.
The oiler reached the prisoner first, revolver in hand.
“Get up, you!” he ordered. Sullenly the man obeyed. Removing a handkerchief from about his neck, the oiler gave it to Alex, who securely bound the man’s hands behind him. Throwing off the lassoo, they turned toward the Indian. With some wonder, they saw he was carefully examining the hoofs of the pony he was leading. Concluding the inspection with a grunt, he came forward, winding up the rope, and halted before them.
“You hoss?” he asked of the prisoner, pointing over his shoulder.
The cowboy looked at him contemptuously, and responded, “Well, what if it is, Old Ugly-Mug?”
The oiler brought up the pistol. “I don’t know why he wants to know, but you go ahead and tell him!” he ordered threateningly. “He’s twice the man you are. Is it your horse?”
“Yes.”
Little Hawk turned away with a grunt of satisfaction, and mounting his pony, rode off towards the junction.
What the Indian meant Alex learned when, with their prisoner between them, he and the oiler approached the boarding-train, and met Little Hawk returning with Superintendent Finnan.