The Press., 1892-11-17
Brent lifted him at a leap across the

Brent lifted him at leap across the arroyo.
 Poor Pumpsi
 His hind feet slipped on the time smoothed rock. He fell short. He plunged down dozen feet among the rough bowlders of the torrent bed. Brent was out of the saddle almost be- fore he struck, raising him.
 No, he would never rise again. Both his forelegs were broken at the knee. He rested there, kneeling on the rocks where he fell.
 Brent groaned. The horse screamed horribly, horribly-there is no more agonized southland the scream went echoing high up the cliffs where the red sunlight rested.
 It costs loving master much to butcher his brave and trusty horse, the half of his knightly self; but it costs him more to hear him shriek in such misery. Brent drew his pistol to put poor Pumps out of pain.
 Armstrong sprang down and caught his hand.
 s.Stopr' he said in his hoarse whisper.
 He had hardly spoken since we started. My nerves were so strained that this mere ghost of 8 sound rang through me like death yell, grisly cry of merci- less and exultant vengeance. I seemed to hear it's echoes, rising up and swell ing in flood of thick uproar, until they burst over the summit of the pass and were wasted in the cral nies of the towering mountain Hanks above.
 s'Stopr' whispered Armstrong. 'Ne shootingl They'll hear. The knife!"
 He held out his knife to my friend.
 Brent hesitated one heart beat. Could he stain his hand with his faithful serv ants blood?
 Pumps screamed again.
 Armstrong snatched the knife and drew 1t across the throat of the crippled horse.
 Poor Pumps! He sank and died with out a moan. Noble martyr in the old heroic cause.
 Icaught the knife from Armstrong. cut the thong of my girth. The heavy California saddle, with its macheers ant roll of blankets, fell to the ground. Icu off my spurs. They had never ye touched Fulano's Hanks. He stood be side me quiet, but trembling to be off.
 ''Now, Brent! up behind mep' whis pered-for the awe of death was upo1 US.
 mounted. Brent sprang up behind ride light for tall man. Brent is tho slightest body of an athlete ever saw
 Fulano stood steady till we were firm in our seats.
 Then he tore down the defile.
 Here was that vast reserve of power here the tireless spirit; here the hoo striking true as thunderbolt, wher' the brave eye saw footing; here tha writhing agony of speed; here the grea promise fulfilled, the. great heart thrill ing to mine, the grand body living t. the beating heart. Noble Fulano!
 rode with snaffle. left 1t hangin. loose. did not check or guide him He saw all. He knew all. All was hi doing. ...'-5
 We sat firm, clinging as we could, a we must. Fulano dashed along the re sounding pass.
 Armstrong pressed after-the gaun white horse struggled to emulate hi leader. Presently we lost them behln' the curves of the alley. No other hors that ever lived could have held with tn black in that headlong gallop to save.
 Over the slippery rocks, over tn sheeny pavement, plunging through tn loose stones, staggering over the barri cades, leaping the arroyo, down, up, on always on-on went the horse, we cling ing as we might. It seemed one beat of time, it seemed an eternity, when between the ring o the hoofs I heard Brent whisper in m, ear:
 eve are there."
 The crags flung apart, right and left saw a sylvan glade. Isaw the gleam o gushing water. Fulano dashed on, uncomfortable! There they were-the murderers. Arrived but one moment!
 The lady still bound to that pack m ul branded A 6. A.
 Murker just beginning to unstable.
 Larrap not dismounted, in chase of th other animals as they strayed to graze. The men heard the tramp and saw u as we sprang into the glade. Both my hands were at the bridle. Brent, grasping my waist with on arm, was awkward with his pistol. 1 Murker saw us first. He snatched hi sixshooter and fired. l Brent shook with spasm. His pistc arm dropped.
 Before the murderer could cock again Fulano was upon him! | He was ridden down. He was beaten 1 trampled down upon the grass-crushed abolished. l We disentang,ed ourselves from tn melee.
 | Where was the other?
 The coward, without firing shot, wa spurring Armstrong's fathead hors blindly up the canyon, whence we ha 1 issued.
 We turned to Murker. Fulano was up again and stood ther shuddering. But the man?
 A hoof had battered in the top of hi skull; blood was gushing from his mouth his ribs were broken; all his body was 1 trodden, massacred carcass. l He breathed once as we lifted him. | Then tranquil, childlike look stol over his face-that we'll known look c the weary body, thankful that the turbu lent soul has gone. Murker was dead. Fulano, and not we, had been execu honer. His was the stain of blood. CHAPTER XVII. l LUGGERNEL SPRINGS.
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