He was about seventy-five feet distant, and he turned at
about the instant that Calumet saw him. That instant was enough for
Calumet, for as the man turned his face was bathed for a fraction of a
second in the moonlight, and Calumet recognized him. It was Neal
Taggart.
Calumet halted. His six-shooter roared at the exact second that the
man buried his spurs in the flanks of his horse and threw himself
forward upon its neck.
The bullet must have missed him only by a narrow margin, but it did
miss, for he made no sign of injury. His instant action in throwing
himself forward had undoubtedly saved his life. Calumet swung the
pistol over his head and brought it down to a quick level, whipping
another shot after the fleeing rider. But evidently the latter had
anticipated the action, for as he rode he jumped his horse from one
side to another, and as the distance was already great, and growing
greater, he made an elusive target.
Calumet saw his failure and stood silent, watching until Taggart was
well out into the valley, riding hard, a cloud of dust enveloping him.
A yell reached Calumet from the distance--derisive, defiant, mocking.
Calumet cursed then, giving voice to his rage and disappointment.
He went glumly around to the front of the house and closed the door to
the office.
Pages:
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161