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 shore 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 glasses, 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.