"Now for the others!" cried Miguel, when he had assured
himself that each of the six were really quite dead.
Spurring after him Billy and Bridge ran their horses over
the rough ground at the base of the little hill, and then
parallel to the arroyo for a matter of a hundred yards, where
they espied two Indians, carbines in hand, standing in evident
consternation because of the unexpected fusillade of shots
which they had just heard and which they were unable to
account for.
At the sight of the three the sharpshooters dropped behind
cover and fired. Billy's horse stumbled at the first report,
caught himself, reared high upon his hind legs and then
toppled over, dead.
His rider, throwing himself to one side, scrambled to his feet
and fired twice at the partially concealed men. Miguel and
Bridge rode in rapidly to close quarters, firing as they came.
One of the two men Pesita had sent to assassinate his "guests"
dropped his gun, clutched at his breast, screamed, and sank
back behind a clump of mesquite. The other turned and
leaped over the edge of the bank into the arroyo, rolling and
tumbling to the bottom in a cloud of dry dust.
As he rose to his feet and started on a run up the bed of
the dry stream, dodging a zigzag course from one bit of scant
cover to another Billy Byrne stepped to the edge of the
washout and threw his carbine to his shoulder.
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