This Sat.u.r.day he come, all right, and went over to Sparks's corral fer a couple of hosses. (Us punchers 'd tied our broncs over in the corral too, so's we'd have to run fer 'em when Pedro lit out with the gal.

And I'd picked that strawberry roan of Sparks's fer Boston. It was the fastest critter on four laigs in the hull country. Y' see, I wanted Boston t' lead the posse.)

Six o'clock was the time named. It 'd give us more 'n two hours of day fer the chase, and then they'd be a nice long stretch of dusk--just the kind of light fer circlin' a' outlaw and capturin' him, dead 'r alive!

Wal, just afore the battle, mother, all us cow-punchers happened into the Arnaz place. And a-course, Boston was there. Me and him was settin'

'way back towards the kitchen-end of the room. Pretty soon, we seen Pedro pa.s.s the front winda, ridin' a hoss and leadin' another. His loaded quirt was a-hangin' to his one wrist, and on his right laig was the gun filled with blanks that we'd left at Sparks's fer him.

He stopped at the far corner of the house, droppin' the bridle over the broncs' haids so they'd stand. Then he came to the side door, opened it about a' inch, peeked in at Carlota,--she was behind the counter--and whistled.

She walked straight over to him, smilin'--the little cut-up!--and outen the door! Fer a minute, no sound. Then, the signal--a screech.

That screech was so blamed genuwine I almost fergot to stick out my laig and trip Boston as he come by me. Down he sprawled, them spectacles of hisn flyin' off and bustin' to smithereens. The boys bunched at the doors t' cut off the Arnaz boy and the ole lady. Past 'em, I could see them two broncs, with Pedro and Carlota aboard, makin' quick tracks up the street.

"Alas! yon villain has stole her!" says Sam Barnes, throwin' up his arms like they do in one of them the_ay_ter plays.

"Come," yells Rawson. "We will foller and sa-a-ave her." Then he split fer the corral,--us after him.

When we got to it, we found somethin' funny: Our hosses was saddled and bridled all right--_but ev'ry cinch was cut!_

Wal, you could 'a' knocked me down with a feather!

That same minute, up come Hank Shackleton on a dead run. "Boys!" he says, "that greaser was half shot when he hit town. Got six more jolts at Dutchy's."

Fast as we could, we got some other saddles and clumb on--Bill and Sam and me and Shackleton, Monkey Mike, Buckshot Milliken and the sheriff--and made fer Hairoil's shack.

_No Carlota_--but that blamed straw feemale, keeled over woeful, and a cow eatin' her hair.

Shiverin' snakes! but we was a sick-lookin' bunch!

But we didn't lose no time. A good way ahaid, some dust was travellin'.

We spurred towards it, cussin' ourselves, wonderin' why Carlota didn't turn her hoss, 'r stop, 'r jump, 'r put up one of her tiger-cat fights.

"What's his idear?" says Monkey Mike. "Where's he takin' her?"

"Bee line fer the reservation," says Buckshot.

"Spanish church there. Makin' her _e_lope."

"Wo-o-ow!" It was Sheriff Bergin. We'd got beyond the Bar Y ranch-house, and 'd gone down a slope into a kinda draw, like, and then up the far side. This 'd brung us out on to pretty high ground, and we could see, about a mile off, two hosses gallopin' side by side. "The gal's bronc is lame!" says the sheriff. "And Pedro's lickin' it. We _got_ him! Pull you' guns."

_Guns_. I got weaker'n a cat. And, all at the same time, the other fellers remembered--and _such_ a howl. We had guns, _a-course_--_but they was filled with blanks!_

We slacked a little.

"Is that greaser loaded?" ast Bergin.

"Give him blanks myself," says Bill.

Ahaid again, faster 'n ever. Carlota's hoss was sh.o.r.e givin'

out--goin' on three feet, in little jumps like a jackrabbit. Pedro wasn't able t' git her on to _his_ bronc, 'r else he was feard the critter wouldn't carry double. Anyhow, he was behind her, everlastin'ly usin' his quirt--and losin' ground.

Pretty soon, we was so nigh we made out t' hear him. And when he looked back, we seen his face was white, fer all he's a greaser. Then, of a suddent, he come short, half wheeled, waited till we was closter, and fired.

Somethin' whistled 'twixt me and the sheriff--_ping-ng-ng!_ It was lead, all right!

And just then, whilst he was pullin' t' right and left, scatterin'

quick, but shootin' off blanks (we was so _ex_cited), that strawberry roan of Sparks's come past us like a streak of lightnin'. And on her, with his dicer gone, no gla.s.ses, a ca'tridge-belt 'round his neck, and a pistol in one hand, was Boston!

"Hi, you fool," yells the sheriff, "You'll git killed!"

(Tire Pedro out and then draw his fire was the best plan, y' savvy.)

Boston didn't answer--kept right on.

But the run was up. Pedro 'd reached that ole dobe house that Clay Peters lived in oncet, pulled the door open, and makin' Carlota lay flat on her saddle (_she was tied on!_) druv in her hoss. Then, he begun t' lead in hisn--when Boston brung up his hand and let her go--bang.

Say! that greaser got a surprise. He give a yell, and drawed back, lettin' go his hoss. Then, he shut the door to, and we seen his weasel face at the winda.

Boston's gun come up again.

"Look out," I hollered. "You'll hurt the gal."

He didn't shoot then, but just kept goin'. Pedro fired and missed.

Next minute, Boston was outen range on the side of the house where they wasn't no winda, and offen his hoss; and the cholo was poppin' at us as we come on, and yellin' like he was luny.

But Boston, it seems, could hear Carlota sobbin' and cryin' and prayin'. And it got in to his collar. So darned if he didn't run right 'round to that winda and smash it in!

Pedro shot at him, missed; shot again, still yellin' b.l.o.o.d.y murder.

Boston wasn't doin' no yellin'. He was actin' like a blamed jack-in-the-box. Stand up, fire through the winda, duck--stand up, duck----

He got it. Stayed up a second too long oncet--then tumbled back'ards, kinda half runnin' as he goes down, and laid quiet.

Pedro didn't lean out t' finish him; didn't even take a shot at us as we pulled up byside him and got off.

But the gal was callin' to us. I picked up Boston's gun and looked in.

Pedro was on the dirt floor, holdin' his right hand with his left. (No more shovelin' fer _him_.)

Wal, we opened the door, led Carlota's hoss out, set the little gal loose, and lifted her down.

At first, she didn't say nothin'--just looked to where Boston was. Then she found her feet and went towards him, totterin' unsteady.

"Querido!" she calls; "querido!"

Boston heerd her, and begun crawlin' t' meet her. "All right, sweetheart," he says, "--all right. I ain't hurt much."

Then they kissed--and we got _another_ surprise party!