He had his revolver with him; what
mattered the life of another man if he escaped from the consequences of
the one he had just taken? He heard the clatter of hoofs; two priests on
mules rode slowly by; he ground his teeth with disappointment. But they
had scarcely passed before another and more rapid clatter came from
their rear. It was a lad on horseback. He started. It was his own son!
He remembered in a flash how the boy had said he was coming to meet the
padre at the station on that day. His first impulse was to hide himself,
his wound, and his defeat from the lad, but the blind idea of escape
was still paramount. He leaned over the bank and called to him. The
astonished lad cantered eagerly to his side.
"Give me your horse, Eddy," said the father; "I'm in bad luck, and must
get."
The boy glanced at his father's face, at his tattered garments and
bandaged leg, and read the whole story. It was a familiar page to him.
He paled first and then flushed, and then, with an odd glitter in his
eyes, said, "Take me with you, father. Do! You always did before. I'll
bring you luck."
Desperation is superstitious. Why not take him? They had been lucky
before, and the two together might confound any description of their
identity to the pursuers. "Help me up, Eddy, and then get up before me."
"BEHIND, you mean," said the boy, with a laugh, as he helped his father
into the saddle.
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