The officer dropped like a rock. It was a clean knock-out. Zeb gave him one look and then grabbed Ricky by the arm.
“Come on!” he yelled. “Run, you son-of-a-gun, run! We’ve got to git to them hosses quick!”
He dashed off down the dusty street and Ricky pounded along behind. Several people on the street had seen the blow struck but they made no move to stop the pair. The suddenness of it all and the limp form of the officer lying there on the board sidewalk drew their attention more than did the two dust-covered figures racing for the livery-stable.
“Pure bull luck!” panted Zeb. “Them hosses ain’t been unsaddled yet. “Git a-goin’!” he yelled as he climbed into the saddle and spurred the black around the corner.
Ricky needed no urging. His big roan was right on the heels of the black when they hit the down grade toward Sweet Grass Valley.
Not a word was spoken until they had put at least a dozen miles between them and Mill City. At the forks of the road, Zeb pulled up and turned in his saddle.
“Which one do yuh reckon th’ posse will take in case they hit our trail, Ricky?”
Ricky rolled a smoke and scratched his head foolishly.
“I don’t reckon it makes much difference which one we take,” he remarked. “They ain’t goin’ to foller us far. Hittin’ uh deputy ain’t no hangin’ matter, Zeb.”
“No, but hoss stealin’ is,” reminded Zeb seriously.