Without taking aim, Cayuse let fly a bullet. As fortune would have it, the bullet struck the Cheyenne in the arm. The rifle was discharged, but, its aim being deflected at the moment the trigger was pulled, Tenny was saved by the fraction of an inch.
The Cheyenne, with one arm useless, decided he had had enough of the fight, and headed his horse the other way.
Wild Bill, on the back of the other Cheyenne’s horse, had taken account of what was going on, and managed to twist himself around and drop. As he fell, Andy, who was galloping past, sent a bullet at him; but Andy was riding too fast, and had fired in too much of a hurry. Wild Bill escaped the bullet, and the long strides of Andy’s horse had carried the outlaw too far for another shot.
Meanwhile, Blake had been doing his utmost to shoot Lawless. He succeeded in putting a bullet into the scoundrel’s shoulder, and, in exchange, got one through the wrist himself. It was Blake’s right wrist, and his six-shooter dropped.
As Blake bent down to recover the weapon, Andy and the Cheyennes galloped past. Lawless was reeling in his saddle, and he would have fallen had not Andy spurred alongside and steadied him with one arm.
Thus the two white men and the two Indians, having lost their prisoners, plunged away among the rocks, leaving the field to Cayuse, Pete, Tenny, and Blake.
When Blake, with a handkerchief bound about his injured wrist, got back to the top of the path, he found his jubilant companions just freeing Nomad and Wild Bill.
“What luck, Blake?” cried Pete.
“He stopped one o’ my bullets,” Blake answered, “an’ one o’ his men had ter help him get away.”
“Was ye hurt?” asked Tenny.