Dave Takes a Ride

Dave Dingwell had sauntered carelessly out of the Legal Tender on the night of his disappearance.  He was apparently at perfect ease with a friendly world.  But if any one had happened to follow him out of the saloon, he would have seen an odd change in the ranchman.  He slid swiftly along the wall of the building until he had melted into the shadows of darkness.  His eyes searched the neighborhood for lurking figures while he crouched behind the trunk of a cottonwood.  Every nerve of the man was alert, every muscle ready for action.  One brown hand lingered affectionately close to the butt of his revolver.

He had come out of the front door of the gambling-house because he knew the Rutherfords would expect him, in the exercise of ordinary common sense, to leave by the rear exit.  That he would be watched was certain.  Therefore, he had done the unexpected and walked boldly out through the swinging doors.

As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he made out a horse in the clump of trees about twenty yards to the left.  Whether it was Teddy he could not be sure, but there was no time to lose.  Already a signal whistle had shrilled out from the other side of the street.  Dave knew this was to warn the guards at the rear of the Legal Tender that their prey was in the open.

He made a dash for the tree clump, but almost as he reached it, he swung to the left and circled the small grove so as to enter it from the other side.  As he expected, a man whirled to meet him.  The unforeseen tactics of Dingwell had interfered with the ambush.

Dave catapulted into him head first and the two went down together.  Before Dingwell could grip the throat of the man beneath him, a second body hurled itself through space at the cattleman.  The attacked man flattened under the weight crushing him, but his right arm swept around and embraced the neck of his second assailant.  He flexed his powerful forearm so as to crush as in a vice the throat of his foe between it and the hard biceps.  The breath of the first man had for the moment been knocked out of him and he was temporarily not in the fight.  The ranchman gave his full attention to the other.

The fellow struggled savagely.  He had a gun in his right hand, but the fingers of Dave’s left had closed upon the wrist above.  Stertorous breathing gave testimony that the gunman was in trouble.  In spite of his efforts to break the hold that kept his head in chancery, the muscles of the arm tightened round his neck like steel ropes drawn taut.  He groaned, sighed in a ragged expulsion of breath, and suddenly collapsed.

Before he relaxed his muscles, Dingwell made sure that the surrender was a genuine one.  His left hand slid down and removed the revolver from the nerveless fingers.  The barrel of it was jammed against the head of the man above him while the rancher freed himself from the weight of the body.  Slowly the cattleman got to his feet.