Going even this short distance caused him acute pain. Several times the thorny branches of the harsh desert growths caught at his wounded shoulder, and uncertainty made him tremble with nervousness. Would he have sufficient skill to use this primitive weapon?
He was troubled at recalling how Flor de Rio Negro had laughed at him, in childish enjoyment of his clumsiness; but the memory of the happy rides they had had together, and the sight of her now in close peril of death or worse, brought his energy flooding back; and some of the principles instilled in him as a boy, and the methodical, practical spirit of his race, came to stiffen his courage. “Whatever you do, do it well” ... somehow that seemed to the point. Confiding in the mysterious and intangible powers that control our lives, and that from time to time, show an inexplicable preference for some of us, and protect us from apparently inescapable dangers, Richard threw his rope, almost without looking, trusting to his luck and his sure sense of distance. Then he began pulling in, backing his horse in the brush. At the sudden resistance of the lariat, he felt the joyful assurance that he had caught his game. So savage was his joy that he pulled with both hands, though several groans escaped him for the pain he felt from the laceration of his shoulder.
And as a matter of fact the rope had caught both Manos Duras and Celinda, and suddenly they both tumbled backwards under the impact of a sudden pull.
The gaucho let go of Celinda so as to free both hands. Even while he was being drawn along the ground he managed to get at his knife, and cut the rope that bound him. But Watson had foreseen this, and running forward, dealt him several blows on the head with the butt of his revolver. Rojas meanwhile reached the tussling group and throwing his now useless weapon down, grasped his knife.
“Leave him to me, gringo!” he gasped. “I don’t want anybody to take this job from me.... I have a right to it!”
He pushed Watson vigorously out of the way, and the latter turned to Celinda, picked her up from the ground and carried her off to a distance of a few yards. She was so stunned by the fall that she did not recognize him, but stood, passing her hands over her forehead, and gazing blankly about her, while blood tricked from the cuts on her arms and face.
Don Carlos meanwhile was almost helping Manos Duras to get to his feet.
“Stand up, son of evil!... Or you’ll be saying that I am killing you without giving you a chance! Get out your knife, and fight, damn your soul!”
Manos Duras as a matter of fact already held his knife in his hand, but the rancher, beside himself at finally having the gaucho within reach, had not noticed it.
But scarcely had the bandit got a footing than he treacherously made a plunge toward his pursuer, trying to stab him below the belt. However, the blows dealt him by Watson had dazed him sufficiently to slow up all his movements, and the rancher had time to parry the blow with a back stroke of his left hand. Then don Carlos landed a thrust on the bandit’s chest, and another and another, in such swift succession that Manos Duras, blood pouring out from the numerous gashes he had just received, toppled over....