The Mexican was a good deal surprised at the reply his prisoner made. Frank had turned his head, and was looking back toward the woods, as if he half expected to see help coming from that direction, and he had discovered a tall figure in buckskin standing in the bushes. A moment afterward a long rifle was leveled, and Frank thought that the muzzle was pointed straight at his head. That occasioned him no uneasiness, however, for he knew that Dick Lewis’s eagle eye was glancing along the weapon, and that its contents would do no harm to him.
“Did you ever see that fine horse of mine—the one you fellows stole from me?” asked Frank. “Well, I will stake him against the worthless animal you are riding, that you don’t take me to Don Carlos.”
“Eh!” exclaimed the Ranchero, facing quickly about in his saddle, and gazing back at the woods.
That move was all that saved his life. Just then a sheet of flame shot out from the bushes, and the bullet came humming through the air; but instead of finding a lodgment in the body of the Mexican, it was buried in the brain of the horse, which dropped dead in his tracks, dashing the Ranchero and his prisoner violently to the ground.
Frank, stunned by the fall, and blinded by the blood which flowed freely from a wound on his forehead, could not have told what had happened. He lay motionless for a moment, and then, after a few ineffectual attempts, succeeded in raising himself to a sitting posture, and began to look around for his enemy. He saw him seated on the ground at a little distance, holding both hands to his head, and gazing about him with a bewildered air, as if he had not quite made up his mind how he had come to be unhorsed so suddenly. But he was not long in comprehending the matter. Glancing toward the trapper, who was approaching with long strides, and then toward his prisoner, he whipped out the knife which had done him such good service in his recent battle.
“Santa Maria!” he shouted.
That was all he said then, but his actions supplied the place of words, and indicated the desperate resolve he had formed. He jumped to his feet and rushed toward Frank, with his knife uplifted ready to strike.
“Whoop! Bars an’ buffaler! Stop thar, you tarnal Greaser!” cried the trapper. “If you touch that youngster with that we’pon, I’ll raise your har fur you.”
The Mexican paid no heed to the warning. He came on as fiercely as ever, and Frank, unable to lift a finger in his own defense, sat there on the ground and watched those two frantic men who were racing toward him—one intent on taking his life, the other on saving it. Which would reach him first? The Mexican was the nearer to him, but the fleet-footed trapper was getting over the ground at the rate of ten feet to his one. If Dick’s rifle had been loaded, Frank would have had no fears as to the result; but the trusty old weapon was empty, and his friend might approach within reach of him, and still be unable to prevent the Mexican from accomplishing his purpose.