With the second blow, the baron jabbed the irons into his horse. The animal gave a mad leap forward, directly against Jacobs’ horse.
The collision was tremendous.
Jacobs’ horse went to the knees, and Jacobs himself turned a half-somersault out of his saddle, landing on his head and shoulders, heels in the air.
This was doing pretty well for the baron. He might have got away from the Three-ply men if McGowan hadn’t taken a hand in the set-to. Reaching out swiftly, the mine-owner twined his hands in the baron’s collar and dragged him off his horse; then, falling on him where he lay on the ground, McGowan held the luckless Dutchman in that position.
“Look into the saddle-bag, Bern,” cried McGowan.
The super, whose head was still ringing from the effects of the blow on the ear, had regained his feet and was saying things.
Watched by McGowan, he unbuckled the straps of the saddle-bag, pushed in his hand, and drew out—the bar of yellow bullion.
“Ah!” cried McGowan, his voice like the snap of a whip, “the fellow’s a scoundrel, after all!”
“You might have known that, McGowan,” scowled Bernritter, “from the fight he put up to keep us from looking into the saddle-bag.”