“Then it’s up to you to prove he’s yours,” Chappo answered. I scarcely knew his voice, it had gone so hard and cold.
“You don’t believe this hoss is mine?”
“Not me. You rustle calves, Sloan, and--”
“I love a thief,” Sloan said, “but I hate a liar.”
What happened then was beyond my powers of perception. I felt Chappo reach to his hip. There was a flash that singed my face, and Sloan sat his sorrel with a smoking six-shooter in his hand. My master tumbled sideways, twisting the saddle as he fell, and struck the ground on his shoulders.
“Don’t shoot, Sloan,” he begged, “I ain’t got my gun. You’ve done for me anyway. Don’t.”
But Sloan slued his horse that he might obtain a clear shot, and pulled twice on him with deliberate aim.
“Now,” he cried clutching my reins, “now I’ll settle with you.”
I reared straight up and plunged forward at him. The headstall snapped and the bit dropped from my mouth. With the smack of my shod hoofs on his flank, the sorrel began to pitch, and Sloan dropped his gun.
With that I ran--ran as I had never run before in my life. When utterly worn out, I slowed to a walk and endeavored to rid myself of the saddle, which galled me badly. For a long time it resisted every effort, but I did not despair. Chappo’s fall had turned it underneath my belly and there it was in reach of my hind feet. Before dawn I had kicked and torn the thing from my sides, and was free and unencumbered.