Fortunately the distance was
considerable. One of their arrows, however, struck Mr. Hardy's
horse in the shoulder, while another stuck in the rider's arm.
Another went through the calf of Hubert's leg, and stuck in the
flap of the saddle.
There was no time for word or complaint. They buried their spurs in
their horses' sides, and the gallant animals, feeling that the
occasion was urgent, seemed almost to fly. In a mile they were able
to break into a steady gallop, the enemy being now seventy or
eighty yards behind. Mr. Hardy had already pulled the arrow from
his arm, and Hubert now extracted his. As he stooped to do so his
father, who had not noticed that he was wounded, saw what he was
doing.
"Hurt much, old man?"
"Not much," Hubert said; but it did hurt a good deal nevertheless.
"I don't want to tire our horses any more, boys," Mr. Hardy said;
"I shall try and stop those rascals with one of my revolvers."
So saying, he drew one of his pistols from his holster, and turning
round in his saddle, took a steady aim and fired.
At the same instant, however, his horse trod in a hole and fell,
Mr. Hardy being thrown over its head with tremendous force. The
boys reined their horses hard in, and Hubert gave a loud cry as he
saw his father remain stiff and unmoved on the ground.
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