Buck hardly knew what had hit him. That front-sight blow stunned him, raked his skull almost to the bone, left a grisly wound. Blindly putting one hand to his head, Buck uttered a hoarse cry, plunged forward, and rolled to the earth senseless.
For a moment Fisher sat gazing down, the revolver in his hand.
“Good work, Sam!” lifted a roaring voice from the trees. “Good work! I was jest gettin’ a bead on the skunk when you riz up.”
Jake Harper urged a horse into sight, uncocking his rifle as he came. Fisher stared at him weakly, hardly realizing what the man’s appearance here meant.
“You got away?” he murmured.
“You bet! Any time I can’t git out o’ buckskin thongs when they’s water handy to stretch ’em—— Good gosh, Sam! What’s happened?”
Sam Fisher reeled a little. Jake looked at the limp figure of Arnold, perceived that Fisher himself was swaying in the saddle.
“Me, I’m about all in, Jake,” said the whimsical voice. “You got to do the rest. Don’t hurt Buck, mind; he’s got to go to the pen. I have the goods on him. You have to take us back to the Lazy S—but look out! Look out for that man Sandy——”
Jake Harper dismounted, rushed to Fisher’s side, and caught the sheriff of Pecos as he went limp.
“Don’t you worry none about Sandy Davitt,” he said grimly. “That’s his hoss I’m ridin’ now. Didn’t ye hear a shot a while back?”