"Stop! stop there! or I'll wound your horse," said the boy, pointing the pistol toward the advancing enemy.
The man, however, seemed to realize the difficulty of firing with any accuracy under such conditions; he, therefore, lowered his head behind the horse's neck to escape any stray ball, and continued to ride on. Owen was true to his threat, taking deliberate aim he sent a ball through one of the animal's front legs; the horse fell to the ground unable to arise.
Still the pursuit did not end here, for old Hickory began to stagger and reel from one side of the road to the other.
"Poor old Hickory! poor old fellow!" said Owen, stroking the animal's neck and mane.
Hickory turned his head as if to beseech his young master not to urge him farther.
"Poor old fellow!" continued Owen, trying in vain to keep back the tears that gathered in his eyes; for Hickory was a true friend of his, and it pained the boy to make him suffer so.
Hickory stopped—he could go no farther!
Owen dug the spurs deep into his side, crying at the same time: "Poor! poor old Hickory! I have to do it; can't you go? Can't you go, old Hickory?"
The jaded beast made another effort, trembled in every limb, and fell heavily to the ground. The man whose horse had been shot gave a yell and started on a run toward Owen, who quickly extricated himself from the stirrups and ran down the road.
"I'll give you a sound thrashing when I catch you!" cried the man, as both pursuer and pursued rushed along over the rough road. "You see I am gaining on you!" he continued, after a few minutes, "you may as well give up."