But Larkin found, to his dismay, that the horse of the other was faster than his own, and when they had galloped about a mile he had to strain his eyes to see the other at all. He knew that unless he did something at once the other would get away from him.
He lifted his revolver and took careful aim at the barely perceptible form of the horse. Then, when the other fired again, Larkin returned the shot, and almost immediately noticed that he was creeping up. At fifty yards the fleeing man blazed away again, and this time Bud heard the whistle of the bullet. Without further delay he took a pot-shot at the rustler’s gun arm and, by one of those accidents that the law of chance permits to happen perhaps once in a lifetime, got him.
After that the rustler pulled up his failing animal to a walk and faced him around.
“Hands up!” yelled Larkin, covering the other.
The answer was a streak of yellow flame from the fellow’s left hand that had been resting on his hip. The bullet flew wide as though the man had never shot left-handed before, and Bud, furious at the deception, dashed to close quarters recklessly, not daring to shoot again for fear of killing his man.
This move broke the rustler’s courage, and his 214 left hand shot skyward. His right arm being broken, he could not raise it. Larkin rode alongside of him and peered into his face.
It was Smithy Caldwell.
Quickly Bud searched him for other weapons.
“What’re yuh goin’ to do with me, Larkin?” whined the blackmailer. “Don’t take me back there. I haven’t done nothin’.”
“Shut up and don’t be yellow,” admonished Bud. “If you’re not guilty of anything you can prove it quick enough, I guess.”