This dread dénouement seemed very likely to happen. At the edge of the “flat” there was a steep bank, dropping sheer downward to the bed of the cañon. In one place, the trail from below followed a steep slope—but the steer was not headed toward the slope, but toward the precipice.
Maddened by the unsuccessful attempt made to stop its flight, and still further frenzied by the yells of the men, there was small doubt but that the steer would hurl itself over the edge of the high bank, break its own neck, and crush out the life of the man on its back—in case the man happened to be still alive.
“Who’s got a gun?” shouted Gentleman Jim, as all hands plunged along after the steer. “Get a rifle, somebody!”
“We’d be as li’ble ter hit the man as ter hit the steer,” puffed Hoppy Smith.
“It’s a chance we’ll have to take,” averred Gentleman Jim breathlessly.
“But there ain’t a rifle among the lot o’ us,” said Stump Hathaway, “an’ no time ter git one.”
At the rear of the Spread Eagle the men came to a halt. A level stretch lay between them and the top of the bank. The steer was almost across the stretch, and pounding onward without lessening its speed in the least.
“The fellow is as good as done for,” said Gentleman Jim, leaning against the wall of the Spread Eagle and drawing his sleeve across his dripping forehead.
“He’ll go over in spite o’ fate,” muttered Hank Tenny, joining the group at the rear of the honkatonk. “Who’d hev thought thet rotten post would hev let go like it did? If it hadn’t been for that, I’d hev stopped the maverick.”
“When a man’s time comes,” said Gentleman Jim, “he’ll get his due, whether by bullet, or water, or six feet of rope—or a red maverick steer. Too bad, too bad! Ah, the steer sees the break in the ground ahead, and is getting ready to go over. If we only had a rifle——”