He did not yet essay the short, stiff-legged action of the typical bucker, but made long, reaching, low-headed plunges, seeking his own freedom in that way, perhaps half in some equine wonder of his own.  None the less the wrenching of the girl’s back, the leverage on her flexed knee, unprotected, were unmistakable.

The horse reared again and yet again, high, striking out as she checked him.  He was getting in a fury now, for his rider still was in place.  Then with one savage sidewise shake of his head after another he plunged this way and that, rail-fencing it for the open prairie.  It looked like a bolt, which with a horse of his spirit and stamina meant but one thing, no matter how long delayed.

It all happened in a flash.  Banion caught at the rein too late, ran after—­too slow, of course.  The girl was silent, shaken, but still riding.  No footman could aid her now.

With a leap, Banion was in the saddle of Woodhull’s horse, which had been left at hand, its bridle down.  He drove in the spurs and headed across the flat at the top speed of the fast and racy chestnut—­no match, perhaps, for the black Spaniard, were the latter once extended, but favored now by the angle of the two.

Molly had not uttered a word or cry, either to her mount or in appeal for aid.  In sooth she was too frightened to do so.  But she heard the rush of hoofs and the high call of Banion’s voice back of her: 

“Ho, Pronto!  Pronto! Vien’ aqui!”

Something of a marvel it was, and showing companionship of man and horse on the trail; but suddenly the mad black ceased his plunging.  Turning, he trotted whinnying as though for aid, obedient to his master’s command, “Come here!” An instant and Banion had the cheek strap.  Another and he was off, with Molly Wingate, in a white dead faint, in his arms.

By now others had seen the affair from their places in the wagon park.  Men and women came hurrying.  Banion laid the girl down, sought to raise her head, drove back the two horses, ran with his hat to the stream for water.  By that time Woodhull had joined him, in advance of the people from the park.

“What do you mean, you damned fool, you, by riding my horse off without my consent!” he broke out.  “If she ain’t dead—­that damned wild horse—­you had the gall—­”

Will Banion’s self-restraint at last was gone.  He made one answer, voicing all his acquaintance with Sam Woodhull, all his opinion of him, all his future attitude in regard to him.

He dropped his hat to the ground, caught off one wet glove, and with a long back-handed sweep struck the cuff of it full and hard across Sam Woodhull’s face.

CHAPTER VI

ISSUE JOINED

There were dragoon revolvers in the holsters at Woodhull’s saddle.  He made a rush for a weapon—­indeed, the crack of the blow had been so sharp that the nearest men thought a shot had been fired—­but swift as was his leap, it was not swift enough.  The long, lean hand of the bearded Missourian gripped his wrist even as he caught at a pistol grip.  He turned a livid face to gaze into a cold and small blue eye.