The Indian, at the same time, dropped his bow, and, bringing his lance to the charge, spurred on to meet me. I was determined not to fire until near and sure of hitting.
We closed at full gallop. Our horses almost touched. I levelled and pulled trigger. The cap snapped upon my pistol!
The lance-blade glittered in my eyes; its point was at my breast. Something struck me sharply in the face. It was the ring-loop of a lasso. I saw it settle over the shoulders of the Indian, falling to his elbows. It tightened as it fell. There was a wild yell, a quick jerk of my antagonist’s body, the lance flew from his hands, and the next moment he was plucked out of his saddle, and lying helpless upon the prairie.
His horse met mine with a concussion that sent both of them to the earth. We rolled and scrambled about, and rose again.
When I came to my feet, El Sol was standing over the Navajo, with his knife drawn, and his lasso looped around the arms of his captive.
“The horse! the horse! secure the horse!” shouted Seguin, as he galloped up; and the crowd dashed past me in pursuit of the mustang, which, with trailing bridle, was scouring over the prairie.
In a few minutes the animal was lassoed, and led back to the spot so near being made sacred with my grave.