not the man to take such a display too kindly, and,
having at length regained control, he turned her back and pressed her
to make up time. And it made him smile, as he rode, to feel the swing
of the creature's powerful strides under him. He could not punish her
by asking for pace, and he knew it. She seemed to revel in a rapid
journey, and the extra run taken on her own account only seemed to
have warmed her up to even greater efforts.

It was nearly ten o'clock when he drew near Forks; and the moon had
only just risen. The mare was docile enough now, and raced along with
her ears pricked and her whole fiery disposition alert.

The trail approached Forks from the west. That is to say, it took a
big bend and entered on the western side. Already Tresler could see
the houses beyond the trees silhouetted in the moonlight, but the
nearer approach was bathed in shadow. The trail came down from a
rising ground, cutting its way through the bush, and, passing the
lights of the saloon, went on to the market-place.

He checked the mare's impetuosity as he came down the slope. She was
too valuable for him to risk her legs. With all her vices, he knew
there was not a horse on the ranch that could stand beside the Lady
Jezebel on the trail.

She propped jerkily as she descended the hill. Every little rustle of
the lank grass startled her, and gave her excuse for frivolity. Her
rider was forced to keep a watchful eye and a close seat. A shadowy
kit fox worried her with its stealthy movements. It kept pace with her
in its silent, ghostly way, now invisible in the long grass, now in
full view beside the trail; but always abreast.

Half-way down the trail both horse and rider were startled seriously.
A riderless horse, saddled and bridled, dashed out of the darkness and
galloped across them. Of her own accord Lady Jezebel swung round, and,
before Tresler could check her, had set off in hot pursuit. For once
horse and rider were of the same mind, and Tresler bent low in the
saddle, ready to grab at the bridle when his mare should overhaul the
stranger.

In less than a minute they were abreast of their quarry. The
stranger's reins were hanging broken from the bit, and Tresler grabbed
at them. Nor could he help a quiet laugh, when, on pulling up, he
recognized the buckskin pony and quaint old stock saddle of Joe
Nelson. And he at once became alive to the necessity of his journey.
What, he wondered, had happened to the little choreman