He dropped to one knee behind the rocks, picked up the Winchester, and passed a hand over the belt of murderous cartridges. The thud of pounding hoofs arose faintly from the hills below. A horrible suspicion numbed Somers’ brain.
“Tubby!” he gasped. “Dear old Jack! you aren’t⸺”
The lean man looked up into the pallid face, nodded, and smiled grimly.
“Bob,” he said slowly, “when you see Anne again, I want you to tell her that I remembered her—to the last. Will you?”
“Jack,” Somers cried, “they’re more than a mile away yet; there’s time for you to escape.”
“Not on that crippled mustang. They got fresh mounts at Zell’s station. No ordinary horse could save me now, else I’d have asked you for yours long ago.”
He balanced the Winchester in his hands, and turned his rigid face away toward the mouth of the pass.
“They’d overtake me west of the pass, in the open,” he continued. “I prefer to finish the business here. I’ll get more of them—before they get me—than in a running fight.”
“But if you had Fielding’s roan⸺”
Sonora Jack looked up impatiently.