“Black, hell! Look at that gray! He runs with his belly touchin’ the groun’!” Snoots screamed.
Side by side, faster and faster, the twins overtook their quarry. Then they commenced to fire, first with their right and then with their left-hand gun. The rustlers started to drop and then scattered. Two jerked their horses to a standstill and held up their hands. The Allens swept by these and rode down the rest like greyhounds after rabbits. One man, and one man alone, reached the huts, and he slumped to his knees, as he dropped from his horse and tried to gain the house.
“Reckon we bagged the lot,” Jack Allen said soberly, and methodically reloaded his gun.
“Yeh, an’ that feller over by the hut that Jim plugged last is Boston Jack himself,” Bill McAllister said.
They gathered up the wounded and dead and laid them in rows in the shade of the huts. There were six dead, three mortally wounded and five others injured. Boston Jack had been shot through a lung, and his wound was fatal. He stared unblinkingly at his captors.
“Yuh aimin’ to nuss these here bimbos back to health or are yuh goin’ to string ’em up pronto?” Toothpick asked jokingly.
“Now—pronto!” Silent Moore said briefly.
“Naw, let’s keep ’em to show Spur,” Slivers jested.
The expression on Boston Jack’s face changed. His fevered eyes caught Allen’s.
“What’s that about Spur?”