"Si Señor, the saddle of my young lord el Señor Don Sant Iago, of Holy Cross. The caballero ordered me to bring these, that he might play bear before the house of a beautiful lady in Grave City."
"And your own saddle?"
"Alas! I played poker with the Americanos. They have skinned me." Jim made a little flourish, twisted the moustache. It came off in his fingers!
And with a howl the whole crowd closed in. They had captured Jim du Chesnay and Curly McCalmont!
CHAPTER XIII
THE MAN-HUNT
I reckon that civilised folks are trained to run in a rut, to live by rule, to do what's expected. If they're chased they'll run, if they're caught they surrender. That's the proper thing to do.
Our plainsman, he's a much resourceful animal: he never runs in the rut, and he always does exactly what's not expected. Here were Jim and Curly surrounded by five men all hot for war. Broach could shoot good, but his horse was a plumb idiot when it came to firing. He was scared he would miss Jim, and get the counter-jumper who pranced around behind. Of the rest, one was a railroad man, and useless at that, one was a carpenter, and one was a barber—all of them bad shots. Still, they knew that their prisoners could neither fight nor run.
The prisoners did both most sudden, and heaps surprising. While Jim's moustache was dropping, Curly's first bullet got Broach's horse in the eye, sending him backwards over on top of the man. Jim unhorsed the railroad man, the carpenter disabled the barber, and the counter-jumper bolted.