Crack! Pistols roared from either side the road. The two riders caromed together, a horse sent up its horrible scream, men and beasts went flinging down in a terrible crash.
Mad with the killing, Buck’s two punchers leaped into sight across the road, ran forward. From the great cloud of dust cracked a shot, and another. The foremost man fell on his face; the second coughed, spun around, and dropped.
“Got you!” yelled Arnold.
At the same instant Buck shot, Davitt close behind him. Arnold, dimly visible amid the dust, fell back and straightened out. But, as though in echo to those two shots, came another from the dust. Buck’s hat jerked from his head.
“By gosh, Fisher’s still klckin’!” cried Sandy Davitt in stark amazement.
An oath burst from Buck. He fired into the dust again and again, frenzied. One shot answered him, and one only; the bullet seared across his face, sent him down into the grass wiping at his cheeks, swearing, death frightened. Yet he was unhurt.
Both Davitt and Buck crouched low, peering forward, waiting for the dust to settle. It seemed impossible that Fisher could have gone down in that awful welter of death and yet have remained alive; but he was not dead. The shot had shown that.
Little by little the dust subsided. Arnold’s horse, its shoulder smashed by a bullet, raised a shaking head and emitted another frightful scream, then fell back. The other horse lay behind, kicking feebly, trying to grip the ground with its fore hoofs; the poor beast’s back was broken.
Midway between the two animals lay the body of Steve Arnold, face to the sky. But of Sam Fisher there was no sign.
“My gosh!” breathed Davitt incredulously. “He ain’t there. Ah, behind his hoss, Buck! There he is!”