his own horse leap sidewise out from under,
Harley Kennan observed the scratched skin and torn clothing, the wild-
burning eyes, and the haggardness under the scraggly growth of beard, of
the man-hunted man.

The livery horse was justifiably reluctant to make that leap out and down
the bank. Too painfully aware of the penalty its broken knees and
rheumatic joints must pay, it dug its hoofs into the steep slope of moss
and only sprang out and clear in the air in order to avoid a fall. Even
so, its shoulder impacted against the shoulder of the whirling colt below
it, overthrowing the latter. Harley Kennan's leg, caught under against
the earth, snapped, and the colt, twisted and twisting as it struck the
ground, snapped its backbone.

To his utter disgust, the man, pursued by an armed countryside, found
Harley Kennan, his latest victim, like the reporter, to be weaponless.
Dismounted, he snarled in his rage and disappointment and deliberately
kicked the helpless man in the side. He had drawn back his foot for the
second kick, when Michael took a hand--or a leg, rather, sinking his
teeth into the calf of the back-drawn leg about to administer the kick.

With a curse the man jerked his leg clear, Michael's teeth ribboning
flesh and trousers.

"Good boy, Michael!" Harley applauded from where he lay helplessly
pinioned under his horse. "Hey! Michael!" he continued, lapsing back
into beche-de-mer, "chase 'm that white fella marster to hell outa here
along bush!"

"I'll kick your head off for that," the man gritted at Harley through his
teeth.

Savage as were his acts and utterance, the man was nearly ready to cry.
The long pursuit, his hand against all mankind and all mankind against
him, had begun to break his stamina. He was surrounded by enemies. Even
youths had risen up and peppered his back with birdshot, and beef cattle
had trod him underfoot and smashed his rifle. Everything conspired
against him. And now it was a dog that had slashed down his leg. He was
on the death-road. Never before had this impressed him with such clear
certainty. Everything was against him. His desire to cry was
hysterical, and hysteria, in a desperate man, is prone to express itself
in terrible savage ways. Without rhyme or reason he was prepared to
carry out his threat to kick Harley Kennan to death. Not that Kennan had
done anything to him. On the contrary, it was he who had attacked
Kennan, hurling him down on the road