The fusillade was furious, but the trees and branches proved Black’s friends. It was impossible to judge one’s aim aright. His horse staggered. Another bullet sang and purred through the foliage, and the horse fell.
“My God, Jim!” cried Langford. “My cartridges are out! Give me your gun!”
For answer, Jim sent another bullet whistling forward. Black, rising from his fallen horse, fell back.
“I got him!” yelled Jim, exultantly. He spurred forward.
“Careful, Jim!” warned Langford. “He may be ‘playing possum,’ you know.”
“You stay where you are,” cried Jim. “You ain’t got no gun. Stay back, you fool Boss!”
Langford laughed a little.
“You’re the fool boy, Jim,” he said. “I’ll go without a gun if you won’t give me yours.”
They rode cautiously up to the prostrate figure. It was lying face downward, one arm outstretched on the body of the dead horse, the other crumpled under the man’s breast. Blood oozed from under his shoulder.
“He’s done for,” said Jim, in a low voice. In the presence of death, all hatred had gone from him. The man apparently had paid all he could of his debts on earth. The body lying there so low was the body of a real man. Whatever his crimes, he had been a fine type of physical manhood. He had never cringed. He had died like a man, fighting to the last.