Slike jammed his Winchester into one of the empty scabbards and untied the bridle reins of the horses. Holding the reins in one hand, he gripped a saddle horn and simultaneously stuck toe in stirrup. Ensued then a mighty creak of saddle leather, a snort, a plunge, and Slike found himself on his back on the ground with one foot higher than his head. A gun barrel appeared from nowhere and smote him smartly over the ear. Oh, ye sun, moon and stars! Total darkness.
Billy sprang to the heads of the capering horses. "Take his hat off, Johnny!" he cried. "See what you find under the sweatband!"
When Slike emerged into the full possession of his senses, he was the most disgusted man in the territory.
"You gave us quite a run," Billy observed smilelessly.
Slike damned everybody. "You needn't have tied my hands too," he added.
"We can't afford to take chances. Do you feel like admitting that the district attorney helped you break jail?"
Slike glared defiantly. "Nothin' to say," declared Dan Slike, the unrepentant.
"That's your privilege. Suppose now we heave him up on his horse and go see what happened."
They freed his feet, mounted him on the horse that was not packing the rifle and proceeded. Behind the gap in the cottonwoods, fifty yards below the spot under the cutbank where Slike had lain, they found the body of the man with his face in the water. Billy dragged out the body and turned it on its back.
"What you cussin' for?" inquired Dawson.