"God, they are on us!" gasped Washburn. One of the gang raised a shout, and they came on with increased speed.
"Up! Up!" cried Washburn, kicking the saddle out of his way. "Quick! What's the matter?" Westerfelt felt a twinge in his old wound as he tried to mount. Washburn caught one of his legs and lifted him on his horse.
Westerfelt spurred the horse furiously, but the animal plunged, stumbled, and came to his knees—the bridle-rein had caught his foot. The foremost of the gang was now within twenty yards of him.
"Halt thar!" he yelled.
Westerfelt drew his horse up and continued to lash him with his bridle-rein.
"Shoot his hoss, but don't tetch him!" was the next command.
Several revolvers went off. Westerfelt's horse swayed at the rump and then ran sideways across the street and fell against a rail fence. Westerfelt alighted on his feet. He turned and drew his revolver, but just then his horse rolled over against his legs and knocked the weapon from his hand. It struck the belly of the horse and bounded into the middle of the street.
"Ha, we've got ye!" jeered the leader, as he and two or three others covered Westerfelt with their revolvers.