Crack, went the deadly little pop-gun, and with a shattered wrist the outlaw passed by Barney, the bowie dropping from his nerveless fingers.
Barney snatched the bowie as it reached the ground, and hurled it after the man who had intended it for his breast.
“Take that wid me compliments, and don’t feel cut up over the little affair,” cried the Patlander.
He was not a remarkable thrower of the knife, but on this occasion he made a good shot.
The keen blade went quivering into the back of the receding outlaw, and the latter fell from his horse.
“Aha!” roared the delighted gentleman from Clonakilty; “I can bate the Aist Ingy jugglers, so I can. Would ye look at that, now?”
Charley Gorse had fallen from his seat in trying to regain his balance, and had landed astride the shafts of his wagon, from which place he toppled to the plain.
All this time Pomp had been raising the deuce with his striking horse, until the animal grew perfectly wild.
He tore and plunged around like some lunatic.
Pomp drew hard and sharp on the rein, and the leather snapped.