Ahead of him lay a flat
of brushless land offering no shelter. He hoped that his horse would
not be killed by a chance shot. In that event his pride would force
him to retaliate, until he was either killed or captured. He had about
made up his mind to rein up and surrender when he heard the singing
_whizz-zip_ of a bullet that sprayed sand ahead of him. Then came the
faint _pop_ of a rifle far behind. He pulled up, swiftly unbuckled his
belt, and hung his gun on the saddle-horn. Then he stepped away from
his horse--an unconsciously fine thing to do--and turned toward the
distant posse. Again came that shrill, sinister _whizz-zip_ and he was
standing bareheaded in the glaring sun as the black sombrero spun round
and settled lightly in the sand beside him. He wisely thrust up his
hands--arguing that if the posse could see to shoot with such accuracy
they could see and possibly appreciate his attitude. He felt outraged,
and wanted to fight. He did not realize at the moment that his
pursuers were acting in good faith according to their viewpoint.
Meanwhile they flung toward him, spreading out fanwise in case of some
possible treachery.
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