“I ain’t sayin’ that guard wasn’t treatin’ that rabbit scandalous, but after Allen knifed him an’ he’s coughin’ blood, Allen don’t pay no attention, but looks broodin’like at that bunny. An’ when he picks it up an’ sees that its leg is broke, he goes white, an’ I’ll swear there is tears in his eyes when he regretfully uses his sticker to end its misery.”
Snoots stopped, took a chew of tobacco, and then added reflectively: “Damn a knife, I say; it sure ain’t no white man’s weapon. Yet, I dunno. Some one had to stop that feller from yappin’, an’ a shot would sure have mussed up our plans. But he ought to have paid more attention to the feller he knifed than to the rabbit.”
“Sure, he ought to have begged his pardon for stickin’ him,” Flat-foot scoffed.
“Aw, shut up!” Slivers growled.
They sank into silence and watched Allen ride directly toward the man on the buckskin, until he was within two hundred yards. The little outlaw made no effort at concealment, but suddenly swung his pony and headed toward the ranch house. The man on the buckskin fired two shots and then started in pursuit. At the sound of the reports, several men ran from the hut, threw themselves on their ponies, and started to cut off Allen, now circling to the left.
Still swinging to the left in a wide circle, the outlaw ended by pointing directly toward the riders with the cattle, who were riding pell-mell to intercept him. Again he swung sharply to the left and, driving forward with the utmost speed, headed toward the gully where the cow-punchers lay hidden. Soon after he passed between the two converging groups of horsemen, they met and scattered up the gully behind him.
“He bunched ’em like I would cows,” Toothpick said admiringly. “Pick your man an’ let’s go.”
Thinking they had Allen in a trap, the rustlers pulled their ponies up and were dismounting, when the cowboys’ devastating volley took them at point-blank range. The rustlers were all desperate men. In spite of the surprise, they stood their ground and attempted to fight back. But their enemies were concealed, and the rustlers were subjected to a deadly cross-fire, so, at last, what was left of them broke and fled.
Jack Allen, mounted on his big black stallion, and Jim Allen, on Honeyboy, dashed, side by side, after the rustlers. Their horses leaped the mound of fallen men and ponies in the entrance. The rest of the cow-punchers streamed out from the cul-de-sac after the twins.
“Goshamighty! see that black horse go!” Flat-foot cried.