There was a sharp curve ahead, a mile from the JK. Cultus drew sharply on the reins, but the horse was what is commonly known as “cold-jawed,” and the pull meant nothing. Cultus swung himself far over to the inside of the curve, fairly lifting the animal around the curve, which was hedged on both sides by mesquite thickets, and as they came around in a lurching sweep, Cultus got a flash of two riders almost blocking the road.
He was into them so quickly that there was no time for him to straighten up or try to swerve the animal. A gun seemed to explode almost against his face, a jarring crash when the rump of his horse struck the shoulder of another horse. Came the flash of another gun, as Cultus’s horse went to his knees, sending a shower of sand and dust, turning almost around in the slide. But Cultus stayed with the horse, which came back to its feet so quickly that Cultus was thrown along its neck, almost losing his balance.
He was up in a moment, shooting swiftly at the indistinct shapes. A horse had been knocked down, and Cultus wasn’t sure where the rider was. The horse got to its feet and went galloping up the road, while the other rider spurred his horse in pursuit. Cultus had fired four shots, but with his horse rearing and plunging he was unable to shoot with any degree of accuracy.
Still breathless, dazed at the unexpected encounter, he swung the sorrel around and headed for Medicine Tree. Neither himself nor the horse had been injured, as far as he could determine.
“The gods of luck were with me that time,” he told himself. “Somebody knew I’d come along that road to-night, but they didn’t know I was ridin’ the tail of a rocket. That’s what saved me. And I was wonderin’ why on earth I was fool enough to fork a bad bronc in the moonlight. A hunch to do it! That’s the second time they tried and failed. Now it’s my turn. C’mon, tall feller; and a lot of thanks to the mare that foaled a runnin’ fool like you.”
The tall sorrel swung into a mile-eating gallop, and Cultus laughed at the moon. Death had struck at him again and missed.
“Some day I’ll take up book-keepin’, and drown in the ink,” he told himself whimsically. “Fate is fate, and yuh can’t dodge it.”
“You’ve got a reg’lar bronc, ain’t yuh?” grinned the stable-keeper, as Cultus dismounted. “Can he run?”
“He shore can, pardner.”
“Say! His knees are skinned a little. Did he fall with yuh?”