“No,” he said, recocking his revolver. “Mount, my lad, and ride for your life.”
“I won’t,” I said. “You get up and go.”
“What!” he shouted, with his face lowering. “Mount, sir. I order you.”
“Don’t be a fool,” I yelled at him. “They’ll be after us directly. There, some of them are firing already. Get up, or you’ll lose my poor old horse.”
He turned upon me in a rage, with his revolver raised.
“Bah!” he cried. Then a change came over him, and he turned to look back at the enemy. “Can you run?” he said. “I can’t; my right leg’s cut.”
That was plain enough, for his breeches were gashed above the knee, and there was a great patch of blood spreading.
“Yes, I can run,” I said stubbornly; “but I won’t.”
“You shall,” he said, as he thrust his foot into the stirrup and swung himself up on Sandho’s back. “Now then, on my right here. Catch hold of the holster-strap, and we’ll escape together, or fall: the brave lad and the fool.”