the air, in Mr. Bernard’s direction.  In an instant he felt a ring, as of a rope or thong, settle upon his shoulders.  There was no time to think,—­he would be lost in another second.  He raised his pistol and fired,—­not at the rider, but at the horse.  His aim was true; the mustang gave one bound and fell lifeless, shot through the head.  The lasso was fastened to his saddle, and his last bound threw Mr. Bernard violently to the earth, where he lay motionless, as if stunned.

In the mean time, Dick Venner, who had been dashed down with his horse, was trying to extricate himself,—­one of his legs being held fast under the animal, the long spur on his boot having caught in the saddle-cloth.  He found, however, that he could do nothing with his right arm, his shoulder having been in some way injured in his fall.  But his Southern blood was up, and, as he saw Mr. Bernard move as if he were coming to his senses, he struggled violently to free himself.

“I’ll have the dog, yet,” he said,—­“only let me get at him with the knife!”

He had just succeeded in extricating his imprisoned leg, and was ready to spring to his feet, when he was caught firmly by the throat, and, looking up, saw a clumsy barbed weapon, commonly known as a hay-fork, within an inch of his breast.

“Hold on there!  What ’n thunder ‘r’ y’ abaout, y’ darned Portagee?” said a voice, with a decided nasal tone in it, but sharp and resolute.

Dick looked from the weapon to the person who held it, and saw a sturdy, plain man standing over him, with his teeth clinched, and his aspect that of one all ready for mischief.

“Lay still, naow!” said Abel Stebbins, the Doctor’s man; “‘f y’ don’t, I’ll stick ye, ’z sure ‘z y’ ‘r’ alive!  I been aaefter ye f’r a week, ‘n’ I got y’ naow!  I knowed I’d ketch ye at some darned trick or ’nother ’fore I’d done ’ith ye!”

Dick lay perfectly still, feeling that he was crippled and helpless, thinking all the time with the Yankee half of his mind what to do about it.  He saw Mr. Bernard lift his head and look around him.  He would get his senses again in a few minutes, very probably, and then he, Mr. Richard Venner, would be done for.

“Let me up! let me up!” he cried, in a low, hurried voice,—­“I’ll give you a hundred dollars in gold to let me go.  The man a’n’t hurt,—­don’t you see him stirring?  He’ll come to himself in two minutes.  Let me up!  I’ll give you a hundred and fifty dollars in gold, now, here on the spot,—­and the watch out of my pocket; take it yourself, with your own hands!”

“I’ll see y’ darned fust!  Ketch me lett’n’ go!” was Abel’s emphatic answer.  “Yeou lay still, ‘n’ wait t’ll that man comes tew.”

He kept the hay-fork ready for action at the slightest sign of resistance.

Mr. Bernard, in the mean time, had been getting, first his senses, and then some Jew of his scattered wits, a little together.

“What is it?”—­he said.  “Who ’a hurt?  What’s happened?”