With a blood-curdling yell that sent terror to the hearts of the soldiers for an instant, Jesse leaped to the startled pony's back. He seemed to spring from the ground as if impelled by some giant spring.
So unexpected had been the move that the troops stood paralyzed—unable to move hand or foot. In fact, no comprehension of the real meaning of the scene—of the terrible tragedy that had taken place before their very eyes—had forced itself into their minds.
The outlaw's yell of defiance had accomplished the exact result that he had intended it should.
"It's James!" roared the Captain in a fearful rage.
"Take aim!
"Fire!"
Twenty Winchesters crashed, a dull flash of flame lighted up the scene and was instantly lost in a pall of suffocating smoke, the reverberations from the explosion, thundering from peak to peak of the surrounding mountains.
The command was repeated and again the guns of the troopers spoke hoarsely.
Coincident with the first volley the outlaw had thrown himself down on the horse's side, away from the attacking force, Indian fashion. He was a master of every trick known to savage warfare, learned in the school of Quantrell years before.
So suddenly had he gone down that at first they thought he had fallen. But the world's greatest outlaw was not thus easily to be disposed of.