He turned his eyes and looked down the guns of the
two men who had halted. Then, hardly looking
at his target, he snapped his rifle back to his shoulder
and fired. He saw Bill Dozier throw up his hands,
saw his head rock stupidly back and forth, and then
the long figure toppled to one side. One of the
posse rushed alongside to catch his leader, but he
missed, and Bill, slumping to the ground, was trampled
underfoot.
CHAPTER 9
At the same time the rifles of the two men of the
posse rang, but they must have seen the fall of their
leader, for the shots went wild, and Andy Lanning
took off his hat and waved to them. But he did
not flee again. He sat in his saddle with the
long rifle balanced across the pommel while two thoughts
went through his mind. One was to stay there
and watch. The other was to slip the rifle back
into the holster and with drawn revolver charge the
five remaining members of the posse. These were
now gathering hastily about Bill Dozier. But Andy
knew their concern was in vain. He knew where
that bullet had driven home, and Bill Dozier would
never ride again.
One by one he picked up those five figures with his
eyes, fighting temptation. He knew that he could
not miss if he fired again. In five shots he
knew that he could drop as many men, and within him
there was a perfect consciousness that they would
not hit him when they returned the fire.
He was not filled with exulting courage. He was
cold with fear. But it was the sort of fear which
makes a man want to fling himself from a great height.
But, sitting there calmly in the saddle, he saw a strange
thing—the five men raising their dead leader
and turning back toward the direction from which they
had come. Not once did they look toward the form
of Andy Lanning. They knew what he could not know,
that the gate of the law had been open to this man
as a retreat, but the bullet which struck down Bill
Dozier had closed the gate and thrust him out from
mercy. He was an outlaw, a leper now. Any
one who shared his society from this moment on would
fall under the heavy hand of the law.
But as for running him into the ground, they had lost
their appetite for such fighting. They had kept
up a long running fight and gained nothing; but a
single shot from the fugitive had produced this result.
They turned now in silence and went back, very much
as dogs turn and tuck their tails between their legs
when the wolf, which they have chased away from the
precincts of the ranch house, feels himself once more
safe from the hand of man and whirls with a flash
of teeth. The sun gleamed on the barrel of Andy
Lanning’s rifle, and these men rode back in
silence, feeling that they had witnessed one of those
prodigies which were becoming fewer and fewer around
Martindale—the birth of a desperado.
