The horse reached the end of the lariat with a jerk, and stood snorting.
“Whoa, Nebby!”
In another minute Nick Nomad would have cut the lariat and been on the back of the old horse; but a rifle rang, and the bullet whistled past his face, making its wind felt, it was so close.
Nomad stopped, then; not because he so much feared for himself, as because he feared for the life of Nebuchadnezzar. He knew that even in the darkness those riflemen could see well enough to shoot down the horse; he was sure they would do it if he tried to get away on its back; and Nebuchadnezzar was as dear to him as his own life. He faced around, swinging his heavy rifle.
“By all ther spooks o’ ther hills, ef I don’t let daylight through ye, ef ye shoot Nebby!” he yelled. “’Ware thar, and don’t do it!”
A man was riding toward him, and at the man’s heels came others.
“Hands up!”
“And drap my gun? Waal, ye don’t know me, if ye think I’ll do it. Waugh!”
“Put down that gun!”
“I’ll do that, yes; and willin’, see ’t I can’t do nothin’ else. But I shoots ther fust cuss thet lays a hand in harm on my ole hoss.”