Simpson saw there were five in the crowd that was after him. Two broke from the others, riding to flank him, or draw out of range and follow the horses—he was not certain which. Either move was not as he wanted it. He stopped the one on the right. The horse went on, stirrups dancing as it circled and galloped back toward the three riders who remained in the road where they had halted at the first report of Simpson's rifle.
On his left Tom saw the man riding hard for the foot of a little rise that would cut him off. He threw a shot, his target flashing between intervening bushes, and safely away. The three in the road came on with a whoop, cutting loose with everything they had.
Simpson turned to race them for it, hoping to find a spot where he would not loom so prominently, and there stand for the finish. Off to his right he saw the unhorsed man rise up, tall and gaunt, stand wavering a moment, and fall. A bullet caught Simpson's horse. It grunted with the slap of lead, pitching forward so abruptly, so violently, that Simpson was sent sailing as he had gone out of the wagon the morning he hitched that very animal up to its unaccustomed task.
He struck the ground some distance beyond the horse, the fall confusing him momentarily, giving him a terrific jar. He dropped the rifle, and went clawing after it on hands and knees; recovered it, threw himself in the shelter of the horse's body as a fresh shower of bullets cut over his head.
His revolver was in his holster, the one he had taken from Noah hanging to the saddle-horn. He had put Dan's gun under the rope of the packet behind the saddle,
