"But the bucks 'll drop him," asserted a lieutenant who rode at his side. "So long as he's shot, I don't see what difference it makes whether we get him or they."
"_But they won't get him!_" bellowed the captain, his disappointment at losing his chance to capture the most famous desperado the world has ever known and anger at the ill-disguised rebuke of his subordinate getting the better of him.
"Won't get him?" repeated the lieutenant, as though he seemed to doubt his ears.
"_Yes, won't get him!_" returned the man in command of the troops. "You've got a lot to learn, young man, about hunting bad-men.
"But if you never learn any thing else, remember this--Indians, when they're howling and whooping and all excited, are the worst shots in the world.
"Jesse James knows it. And he'd rather take the chance of riding by the whole pack of 'em than to give the few of us a shot at him."
Such, indeed, was the reason that the world-famous desperado had chosen the course he did. Yet his decision had been strengthened by the further knowledge that the redmen feared him and his marvelous prowess with his shooting-irons.
All the while, the little group of outlaws and the two bodies of men bent on their death or capture, were drawing closer together.
In full view of one another, each party was riding like mad to gain its own end.
The distance that separated them was too great.
Nearer and nearer drew the bandits and the Indians and farther and farther were the cavalrymen getting from the ravine.
Less than two hundred yards separated the former.
With eyes now in front, now turned behind, Jesse watched the approach of his enemies.
"Damme! I believe they're mad! Why don't they open fire?" snarled the captain.
To which of the two groups the words referred, the lieutenant did not know and his recent, caustic reprimand prevented him from asking.
His mind, however, was instantly diverted by his superior.
"Ha! What's that mean?" cried the latter, then added instantly "Jesse's turning. I see. He's making for the ravine. I've been fooled!"
Almost choking with rage at the thought that he had allowed himself to be out-generaled by the notorious cutthroat, the captain rose in his stirrups, jerked his sabre from its scabbard and, pointing toward the ravine, turned to his troopers, bellowing: