“Come on, and don’t let the fellow crawl from under and get out,” cried Charlie, the smoking gun still in his hand, and pulling the revolvers from our belts we all scurried over the frozen creek that ran in front of the shanty, and up the declivity.
Jack was the first to reach the top. With one bound he stood next to the rider, who lay motionless on the quivering horse, of which he was still astride.
“Hold him!” yelled Charlie, with whom I was close on Jack’s heels.
“It’s not necessary,” said Jack, bewildered, “for you’ve shot the beggar dead.”
“Nonsense,” said Charlie angrily. “I know exactly where my bullet hit. I aimed at the horse’s left eye,” he added. “There it is.”
Meanwhile Jack was examining the rider closely.
“What is this?” he cried, astonished. “The fellow is bound fast to the horse—look here—even with a chain.” Horrified, he sprang back. “Look, the man has a mark around his neck. Great Heaven, he’s been hanging—he’s been lashed to the horse, and the poor beast has been carrying around a lifeless burden.”
Filled with astonishment and horror, we saw that Jack’s suspicions admitted of no doubt. The rope had sunk deep into the man’s muscular throat, and the knot was still attached to it.
Charlie then raised the dead man’s head.
“Why, it’s Black Sam!” he exclaimed. “He was a wild fellow, but he got his deserts. His gun was always ready, and he has sent many a good fellow to pass in his checks. Who knows how long it is that he has been astride this horse? Corpses do not decompose up here in the mountains, but dry up; I’ve often noticed that in dead animals.”