“You got to,” said Buck shortly.
At this time, from the wooded hills ahead of them, came a single rifle shot that echoed and died away. Buck frowned and vainly searched the hills with his eyes. Nothing was in sight.
For ten minutes the three pursued their slow course. Fisher clung to his saddle; every movement of his horse caused him torture. At last a cry burst from his lips—a cry so bitter, so desperate in its suffering that Buck drew rein.
“Buck! I can’t do it! I can’t do it! You got to put your coat or somethin’ under my knee; it’s more’n I can bear.”
The man reeled in the saddle as he spoke; he was bent, broken, all his iron nerve shattered by the agony of his tortured body. His blue eyes, dulled with pain, stared horribly at Buck.
The rancher, a trace of pity in his harsh features, silently nodded. He put the rifle in its boot and took off his corduroy coat. This he rolled loosely, then edged his horse beside that of the swaying Fisher.
“Ease up on your laig now while I shove her underneath.”
Fisher reeled, caught at the shoulder of Buck as the latter stooped. Another groan broke from his lips when Buck thrust the rolled corduroy beneath his leg. Then suddenly——
Fisher’s left hand caught the revolver from the holster of the stooping rancher. Swift as light he slashed the front sight across the head of Buck.
“Still got one hand, Buck!” lifted his voice.