and breaking his leg under his
horse. But Harley Kennan was a man, and all mankind was his enemy; and,
in killing Kennan, in some vague way it appeared to him that he was
avenging himself, at least in part, on mankind in general. Going down
himself in death, he would drag what he could with him into the red ruin.

But ere he could kick the man on the ground, Michael was back upon him.
His other calf and trousers' leg were ribboned as he tore clear. Then,
catching Michael in mid-leap with a kick that reached him under the
chest, he sent him flying through the air off the road and down the
slope. As mischance would have it, Michael did not reach the ground.
Crashing through a scrub manzanita bush, his body was caught and pinched
in an acute fork a yard above the ground.

"Now," the man announced grimly to Harley, "I'm going to do what I said.
I'm just going to kick your head clean off."

"And I haven't done a thing to you," Harley parleyed. "I don't so much
mind being murdered, but I'd like to know what I'm being murdered for."

"Chasing me for my life," the man snarled, as he advanced. "I know your
kind. You've all got it in for me, and I ain't got a chance except to
give you yours. I'll take a whole lot of it out on you."

Kennan was thoroughly aware of the gravity of his peril. Helpless
himself, a man-killing lunatic was about to kill him and to kill him most
horribly. Michael, a prisoner in the bush, hanging head-downward in the
manzanita from his loins squeezed in the fork, and struggling vainly,
could not come to his defence.

The man's first kick, aimed at Harley's face, he blocked with his
forearm; and, before the man could make a second kick, Jerry erupted on
the scene. Nor did he need encouragement or direction from his
love-master. He flashed at the man, sinking his teeth harmlessly into
the slack of the man's trousers at the waist-band above the hip, but by
his weight dragging him half down to the ground.

And upon Jerry the man turned with an increase of madness. In truth all
the world was against him. The very landscape rained dogs upon him. But
from above, from the slopes of Sonoma Mountain, the cries and calls of
the trailing poses caught his ear, and deflected his intention. They
were the pursuing death, and it was from them he must escape. With
another kick at Jerry, hurling him clear, he leaped astride the
reporter's horse which had continued to stand, without movement or
excitem