Pomp’s revolver brought down two out of the three, and Barney’s rifle finished the affair.
“Pull up slowly,” cried Frank, “and turn back to that poor chap.”
As they slowly wheeled and retraced their route back to the helpless man on the ground, the riderless steeds of the fallen men rushed madly over the plains.
Together they went to the vicinity of the man and horse, steam was shut off, and while Pomp was removing the wirework from the trucks, Frank, Charley, and the Irishman went to the captain.
The poor fellow was pinned to the ground under the heavy body of the horse, and was in great pain, and unable to move his imprisoned limb.
As soon as the three rescuers looked at the captain they sprang forward with cries of recognition and surprise.
“It’s Harry Hale!” cried Frank.
“The secret service detective,” gasped his Cousin Charley. “Why, he’s fainted.”
“And no wonder,” said Barney, “for it’s the divil’s own throp, so it is.”
“Roll that horse over,” commanded Frank Reade, who, being clear-headed and quick to conceive ideas, was looked upon as a sort of leader. “Take that off hind leg, Barney.”