Valois feels a sharp pang in his shoulder. He reels in his saddle.
His revolver lies in the dust. The ringing reports of his body-guard
peal out as they empty their pistols at fleeing horse and man, The
servant runs up, thoroughly frightened.
Don Miguel's best horse has made its last leap. It crashes down,
pinioning the old soldier to the ground. A bullet luckily has
pierced its brain.
Before the old ranchero can struggle to his feet, his hands are
twisted behind his back. A couple of turns of a lariat clamp his
wrists with no fairy band. A cocked pistol pressed against his
head tells him that the game is up.
Valois drops, half fainting, from his horse, while his men disarm
and bind the sullen old Mexican. The blood pouring from Valois'
shoulder calls for immediate bandaging. The two pursuers of the
other fugitive now ride smartly back.
One lags along, with a torn and shattered jaw. His companion is
unhurt. He bears across his saddle bow a well-known emblem, the
yellow and black scrape of Joaquin Murieta. Several ball holes
prove it might have been his shroud. Valois quickly interrogates
the two; after a hasty pistol duel, in which the flowing serape
misled the two practised shots, the fugitive plunged down a steep
slope, with all the recklessness of a Californian vaquero.
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