get hurt."

"Oh, he will, will he?"

"Go for him, Bill," yelled the crowd in glee.

The drunken fool gave Mose a tug. "Come 'ere!" he said with an oath.

"Let go o' me," said Mose, his heart swelling with wrath.

The drunken one aimlessly cuffed him. Then the blood-red film dropped
over the young eagle's eyes. He struck out and his assailant went down.
Then his revolvers began to speak and the crowd fell back. They rolled,
leaped, or crawled to shelter, and when the bloody mist cleared away
from his brain, Mose found himself in his saddle, his swift pony
galloping hard up the street, with pistols cracking behind him. His
blood was still hot with the murderous rage which had blinded his eyes.
He did not know whether he had begun to shoot first or not, he did not
know whether he had killed any of the ruffians or not, but he had a
smarting wound in the shoulder, from which he could feel the wet, warm
blood trickling down.

Once he drew his horse to a walk, and half turned him to go back and
face the mob, which he could hear shouting behind him, but the thought
of his wound, and the fear that his horse had also been hit, led him to
ride on. He made a detour on the plain, and entered a ravine which
concealed him from the town, and there alighted to feel of his horse's
limbs, fearing each moment to come upon a wound, but he was unhurt, and
as the blood had ceased to flow from his own wound, the youth swung into
his saddle and made off into the darkness.

He heard no sound of his pursuers, but, nevertheless, rode on rapidly,
keeping the west wind in his face and watching sharply for fences. At
length he found his way back to the river trail and the horse galloped
steadily homeward. As he rode the boy grew very sad and discouraged. He
had again given away to the spirit of murder. Again he had intended to
kill, and he seemed to see two falling figures; one, the man he had
smitten with his fist, the other one whose revolver was flashing fire as
he fell.

Then he thought of Mary and the sad look in her eyes when she should
hear of his fighting again. She would not be able to get at the true
story. She would not know that these men attacked him first and that he
fought in self-defense. He thought of his father, also, with a certain
tenderness, remembering how he had stood by him in his trial. "Who will
stand by me now?" he asked himself, and the thought of the Pratts helped
him. Delmar, he felt sure, would defend him, but