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"Ver' good. Everyt'ing all right. I stick to you!" and he snatched a shovel and stood beside me and poured forth a cascade of voluble Italian on the gang.

A showman in a cage of wild cats must feel somewhat as we felt then. They rushed on me and I brought down the shovel on a pate, felt my legs wobbly with fear and my heart big with determination all at one time; swung the shovel round and smashed again, standing away from my one friend so as not to hit him.

And then there came a whoop and a slither of stones, and the gang fell back, and I too stepped back and gave a quick look up hill in the direction of their gaze. And coming down the incline, with forefeet taut in the sliding soil, hind legs bent, sliding down in the wonderful way that they have the knack of, came a white Western pony, with a big, broad-chested man upon its back, he balanced exquisitely like the God Apollo to my eye.

But there was nothing of ancient Greece in his weapon. His left hand lightly held the reins, his right was raised in air, holding a long-nosed Colt, raised with the elbow toward us and the wrist backward, ready to slam down forward, and aim, and fire, all in one quick gesture.