He held out his knife to my friend.
Brent hesitated one heart-beat. Could he stain his hand with his faithful servant’s blood?
Pumps screamed again.
Armstrong snatched the knife and drew it across the throat of the crippled horse.
Poor Pumps! He sank and died without a moan. Noble martyr in the old, heroic cause.
I caught the knife from Armstrong. I cut the thong of my girth. The heavy California saddle, with its macheers and roll of blankets, fell to the ground. I cut off my spurs. They had never yet touched Fulano’s flanks. He stood beside me quiet, but trembling to be off.
“Now Brent! up behind me!” I whispered,—for the awe of death was upon us.
I mounted. Brent sprang up behind. I ride light for a tall man. Brent is the slightest body of an athlete I ever saw.
Fulano stood steady till we were firm in our seats.
Then he tore down the defile.