“Are you ready?” asked Wellmere, gnashing his teeth with rage.
“Stand forward, Tom, with the lights; fire!”
Wellmere fired, and the bullion flew from the epaulet of the trooper.
“Now the turn is mine,” said Lawton, deliberately leveling his pistol.
“And mine!” shouted a voice, as the weapon was struck from his hand. “By all the devils in hell, ’tis the mad Virginian!—fall on, my boys, and take him; this is a prize not hoped for!”
Unarmed, and surprised as he was, Lawton’s presence of mind did not desert him; he felt that he was in the hands of those from whom he was to expect no mercy; and, as four of the Skinners fell upon him at once, he used his gigantic strength to the utmost. Three of the band grasped him by the neck and arms, with an intent to clog his efforts, and pinion him with ropes. The first of these he threw from him, with a violence that sent him against the building, where he lay stunned with the blow. But the fourth seized his legs; and, unable to contend with such odds, the trooper came to the earth, bringing with him all of his assailants. The struggle on the ground was short but terrific; curses and the most dreadful imprecations were uttered by the Skinners, who in vain called on more of their band, who were gazing on the combat in nerveless horror, to assist. A difficulty of breathing, from one of the combatants, was heard, accompanied by the stifled moanings of a strangled man; and directly one of the group arose on his feet, shaking himself free from the wild grasp of the others. Both Wellmere and the servant of Lawton had fled: the former to the stables, and the latter to give the alarm, leaving all in darkness. The figure that stood erect sprang into the saddle of the unheeded charger; sparks of fire, issuing from the armed feet of the horse, gave a momentary light by which the captain was seen dashing like the wind towards the highway.
“By hell, he’s off!” cried the leader, hoarse with rage and exhaustion.
“Fire!—bring him down—fire, or you’ll be too late.”
The order was obeyed, and one moment of suspense followed, in the vain hope of hearing the huge frame of Lawton tumbling from his steed.
“He would not fall if you had killed him,” muttered one. “I’ve known these Virginians sit their horses with two or three balls through them; aye, even after they were dead.”
A freshening of the wind wafted the tread of a horse down the valley, which, by its speed, gave assurance of a rider governing its motion.