“C’mon, you —— fools!” he yelled. “The sheriff don’t know it was an accident, and we don’t want to lose Jimmy!”
Realizing that Oyster was right, the other two helped him rush the bewildered Jim across the street to the hitch-rack.
“Git on!” snorted Oyster, whirling his gray horse around. “Git in the saddle, Jim; I’ll ride behind.”
“I never rode no horsh,” Jim drew back, shaking his head.
“You never shot at no sheriff before either!” snapped Eskimo.
He swung Jim Legg up bodily and fairly threw him into the saddle. Jim managed to grasp the horn in time to prevent himself from going off the other side.
The others were mounting in a whirl of dust. Jim felt Oyster swing up behind him, and then he seemed to lose all sense of direction. The gray flung down its head and went pitching down the street, trying to rid itself of the unaccustomed load, while on either side rode Eskimo and Johnny, yelling at the top of their voices.
“Pull leather, you ornyment!” yelled Johnny. “Anchor yoreself, son! You’ll either be a cowpuncher or a corpse!”
After about ten or twelve lurching bucks, which did not seem to disturb Oyster to any great extent, the gray’s head came up and they went out of Blue Wells, like three racers on the stretch.
Scotty Olson skidded into his office, fell over a chair, and sat there, his mouth wide open, while Al Porter ran to the door in time to see the four men cross the street. He turned back to the sheriff.