Now there they rode, secure in their rascality, the bright sun glistening on the little puddles in the black road. Three hundred yards, he estimated it, picking the tall man on the stolen horse and letting drive. Too far; he overshot his mark. The raiders jumped and scattered at the crack of his gun, wheeled and began pitching lead in his direction. He stood in plain view beside the wire fence bordered with a growth of sunflowers and tall weeds; their shots came whining over his head, spattering among the orchard leaves.
They had pulled up, surprise in their attitude, which gave place quickly to contempt when they recognized him. Now they came riding back, pitching a rattling fire, yelping derisively. Once more, with steady hand, steady eye, Simpson picked the tall man and fired.
It was a true shot: the rascal weaved a moment, and slumped rather foolishly off into the muddy road. The horse Frank, free of his unwelcome rider, cut a streak for his home gate, two of the thieves, seeing their trickily won treasure galloping away, tight after him as they could urge their horses, banging away at him trying to kill or cripple him before he made the gate. Simpson crowded through the hedge of tall weeds nearer the fence, pumping away to cover the loyal animal's retreat, and there was the sound of battle in that quiet homestead such as had not echoed there in many a year.
Simpson pumped several quick shots between that streak of bay horse and the two rascals who were trying to kill him to get the handbag, and whatever unlucky stuff it contained, from the saddle. He did not try to hit anybody, having accomplished the greater end of his de-
