"I hope he won't miss the red and hit me," said Loring.
"You needn't be afraid of that, for these Texans are all good shots," answered Bob; adding in a lower tone, "I'll just tell you what's a fact, Loring: I wouldn't interfere with him if I could help it."
The young savage understood what Bob said, but not a muscle of his face changed. If he had been an old warrior, he would probably have begun his death-chant; but having performed no deeds of which he could boast, he remained silent and calmly awaited the fate that would have been inevitable had it not been for George Ackerman's skill in horsemanship.
The animal on which Mr. Wentworth was mounted was evidently accustomed to being ridden without a bridle, for his master guided him with the greatest ease. When he had almost reached the squad he suddenly swerved from his course, in obedience to a signal conveyed to him by a quick movement of his rider's body, and galloping swiftly around the head of the line stopped short on the other flank. By this unexpected change of tactics the enraged father had gained a position on the unguarded side of the prisoner, and if he had acted as soon as his horse came to a standstill he would have accomplished his purpose in spite of everything; but he could not resist the temptation to talk for just a moment, and that moment's delay defeated him. Cocking his rifle with great deliberation, he said fiercely,
"You have eaten salt in my house, you have slept by my fire, you have drunk from my spring when you were thirsty, you Indian dog, and now—"
When the man had gone thus far rage choked his utterance, and he could not say another word. He drew his rifle to his shoulder, but the muzzle, instead of covering the head of the Indian, covered the person of George Ackerman, who was coming toward him with all the speed his horse could put forth.
The boy had sprung into life and activity the instant he witnessed Mr. Wentworth's cunning manoeuvre, for he knew what it meant. Giving a pull at his left rein, at the same time touching his horse lightly with the spurs, the animal wheeled like a flash on his hind feet, and, dashing through the line behind Bob Owens (some of the troopers afterward declared that he jumped clear over Bob's horse), brought his rider to the right side of the Indian just in time to intercept the deadly aim. In another second George had seized the rifle with both hands, and a terrific struggle began between him and Mr. Wentworth for the possession of the weapon. In less time than it takes to tell it the man, having no stirrups to support him, was jerked off his horse, and before he could recover himself and plant his feet firmly on the ground the rifle was twisted out of his grasp, and the bullet contained in the chamber was sent whistling harmlessly off over the sandhills.
"No more of that!" exclaimed Bob, who rode up just half a minute too late to be of any assistance. "Keep quiet now, or you'll go back to camp with a guard over you."
"Mr. Wentworth," said George, bending down from his saddle and laying his hand upon the angry man's shoulder, "your good sense must tell you that the corporal can't stand peaceably by and see his prisoner shot. What are you thinking of?"
"Give me that gun," panted Mr. Wentworth, who was white to the lips and trembling in every limb. "I'll—I'll—"