“Run!” exclaimed Middleton. “They’re coming out!”
Middleton was right.
Just at that moment one of those sheep tried to go between my legs. It was a large one—too large, in fact. I grasped it with one hand, quickly, holding my gun in the other, and attempted to ride it away, but it sprang for a place where all of the fence was missing except for a barbarous wire stretched along the top; and I went backward into the dirt.
I managed to roll over and get to my hands and knees just in time to be struck a murderous blow from the rear, which projected me under the wire and outside the fence. There may have been other openings in that fence, but I will wager that a large per cent. of those sheep came through there and walked over me. After the procession of sharp hoofs had passed me I crawled back and recovered my gun. I had no idea of where Middleton had gone. In fact I don’t believe I gave him a thought.
I got to my feet and limped away, feeling rather dazed, as a man might feel after being hard hit, as it were. I toiled up the side of a hill, and suddenly I discerned Middleton. I knew him by the silhouette of his hat against the sky.
“Thank goodness, I have found you!” I exclaimed.
“Same to you,” he replied; and it was not Middleton’s voice but the voice of the party who suggested the banshee.
I saw the glisten of his gun as he turned. I don’t know what prompted me to do it, but I leveled my gun and pulled the trigger.
The roar deafened me and the concussion hurled me backward, but I had presence of mind enough to crawl away. Suddenly I fell into a depression, where I lay quiet.
“Hey!” cried a voice. “Was that you, Micky?”