And I haven't satisfied myself yet why Hicks struck instead
of shooting; unless he had learned the frontier lesson that a bullet in
a vital spot doesn't _always_ incapacitate a man for deadly gun-play,
while a hard rap on the head invariably does. It wasn't any scruple of
mercy, for Hicks was as cold-blooded a brute as ever glanced down a
gun-barrel.
When my powers of sight and speech and hearing returned, MacRae stood
over me, nowise harmed. The black horse lay where he had fallen. I sat
up and glanced about, thankful that I was still in the flesh, but in a
savage mood for all that. This, thought I, is a dismal-looking
outcome--two men and a dead horse left high and dry on the sun-flooded
prairie. And a rampant ache in my head, seconded by a medium-sized gash
in the scalp, didn't make for an access of optimism at that moment.
"Well," I burst out profanely, "we lose again, eh?"
"Looks like it," Mac answered laconically. Then he whirled about and
walked to a little point some distance away, where he stood with his
back to me, looking toward Lost River.
CHAPTER XIII.
OUTLAWED.
I sat where I was for a while, fingering my sore head and keeping my
thoughts to myself, for I had a keen sense of the mood he was in. For
the second time, through no fault of his own, he had failed to live up
to that tradition of the Force which accepts nothing short of
unqualified victory for a Mounted Policeman when he clashes with
breakers of the law.
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