The reply of the Gulch Tiger was the lifting of his right hand.
“Thet’s the signal!” went through Jack’s brain.
Ay, signal it was.
Suddenly, through the air came the whirr of that deadly missile whose work we have already seen.
Jack instinctively threw up his hand, but too late.
The fatal coil struck his meager length of throat, and the leaden ball revolving with great rapidity drew it tighter and tighter at each revolution.
Old Jack saw the Canyon Tiger fade into indistinctness; darkness came down the sides of the gulch like a descending pall; he reeled and tried to shriek. Rising in his heavy stirrups, he clutched the deadly cord, and attempted to tear it from his throat.
Tom turned away, and several Indian-like figures leaped from the shadows.
“Finish ’im!” the Tiger said.
The three Canyon Wolves darted toward the writhing man, and the foremost fired point-blank at him with a revolver.