In a flash he realized that his weapons were not to serve him. He had the coil of rope and the picket pin in front of him, and he grabbed up the pin and hurled it with all his force.
One of the blockading cowboys was ready to fire his revolver. Before the trigger could be pulled, the sharp point of the pin had struck his arm. He gave a yell of rage and pain, and his weapon dropped from his nerveless fingers.
“Stop!” cried another of the cowpunchers; “stop or I’ll bore ye!”
Wild Bill leaned far from his horse’s back and struck out with his fist.
The cowboy who had voiced the threat, slewed backward in his saddle, so wrapped up in his own pressing complaints that he had no time to give further attention to the Laramie man.
Once more Wild Bill was beginning to congratulate himself. Two of the four cowboys were out of the running; if he could dodge the other two, the trail to the Star-A would be clear before him.
But right here the picket rope and pin, which had served Wild Bill so well, now proved his undoing.
The rope, weighted by the pin, was cutting all sorts of capers around Beeswax’s flying heels. As hard luck would have it, chance threw the rope into a loop, and the loop caught the horse’s front feet.
Down went Beeswax—and he really did roll over. But Wild Bill was not on the horse’s back. The Laramie man had been hurled a dozen feet onward.
When he dropped, he came down all of a heap; and before he could collect his scattered wits, two cowboys were on him, and Lige Benner, Red Steve, and many more were rushing at top speed for the scene to lend their assistance.