For a few seconds all was hidden in a cloud of dust, from the bowels of which rose the snorts of wounded horses, groans and yells. Then, as the dust settled, Bull loomed up. Berserk as any Norseman that ever beat time for his death chant with swinging sword, obedient only to the primal instinct to kill, he swung his clubbed rifle, flailing out that evil chaff, dropping them as they came on.
And come they did, those that were able. Accustomed to war and wounds, they ringed him so closely none dare shoot for fear of hitting his fellow. They could only hack and stab with knives and machetes. Till only two were left they fought him, and when they gave and ran back up the hill Bull made no effort to follow.
Running blood from a dozen wounds, he stood swaying drunkenly among the dying and the dead, the ferocious, primal passion gone, evaporated with the crimson mists that had veiled his sight. His hot brain had cooled and cleared. He saw with wonderful clarity the golden sheen of the sand and stones; subdued glow of the rock walls; the two revueltosos staring at him from the hillside above. One of them was raising his rifle, but Bull took no heed. His eyes were lifted to a drift of white cloud overhead.
With such intensity did he stare, the second revueltoso also looked up, then crossed himself. Did he also see in the diaphanous vapors the faint outlines of a woman and child? Clearly as in life Bull saw; clearly as on that last night he heard Mary Mills’s voice:
“I shall expect you soon?”
The revueltoso was aiming, but Bull did not move. Exultantly his answer rang out, “Sure, ma’am, I’ll come straight to you.”
The rifle cracked and “Bull” Perrin, the last of the “Three Bad Men of Las Bocas,” collapsed in a heap.
THE END.
ZANE GREY’S NOVELS
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list.