Raising his gun, Steve nodded farewell to his friend.
A moment before Holcomb had had no intention of interfering, but an impulse that was almost an inspiration gave springs to his muscles. He leaped.
The fling of his arm sent the shot flying wildly into the night. Yeager turned on him furiously as he picked himself up to his knees.
"What did you do that for?"
"I don't know—had no intention of it a moment before. Maybe I've done you a bad turn, Steve. It came over me as a hunch that you were coming out of this all right."
"The devil it did. Gimme your gun. Quick!"
It was too late. The Mexicans were closing with him. They flung him down and pegged him to the ground with their weight. He made no attempt to struggle.
"Get off of him. He's my prisoner," roared Holcomb, flinging one of the Mexicans back.
They poured on him a flood of protesting Spanish. They had taken him while he was still at large. The reward was theirs.
"Confound the reward. You may have it, but the man belongs to me. Get up. He's wounded. Two of you will have to carry him."