curves now, but there was a straight
cut down a slide of gravel, a dangerous slope even in firm ground, a
terrible angle with those loose pebbles underfoot. Yet this was a time
for chance-taking. Already the dusty man on the roan rode with his
revolver balanced for the snap shot. The next instant his gun swung
down, he actually reined up in astonishment. The fugitive had flung
himself far back against the cantle and sent Grey Molly at the slide. It
was not a matter of running as the mare shot over the brink. Molly
sat back on her haunches, braced her forelegs, and went down like an
avalanche. Over the rush and roar of the pebbles, over the yell of
wonder from the pursuers, she heard the voice of her rider, a clear and
steady voice, and the tautened reins telegraphed to her bewildered mind
the wish of the man. She struck the level with stunning force, toppled,
nearly fell, and then straightened along her course in a staggering
gallop. Started from its nice balance by the rush of stones they
loosened, a ten-ton rock came toppling after, leaped up from the valley
floor like a live thing, and then thundered away towards the river.

Grey Molly, finding her legs once more, tried the level going. She
had beaten the same horses before under the crushing impost of Gregg's
weight. With this lighter rider who clung like a part of her, who gave
perfectly to the rhythm of her gallop, she fairly walked away from the
posse. Once, twice and again the gun spoke from the hand of Pete Glass,
but it was the taking of a long last chance rather than a sign of
closing on his chase. In ten minutes Grey Molly dipped out of sight
among the hills.

After the first hour Barry could have cut away across country with
little fear of discovery from the sheriff, but he was in no hurry to
escape. Sometimes he dismounted and looked to his cinches and talked to
the horse. Grey Molly listened with pricking ears and often canted her
head to one side as though she strove to understand the game.

It was a new and singular pleasure to Barry. He was accustomed to the
exhaustless, elastic strength of Satan, with the cunning brain of a
beast of prey and the speed of an antelope. On the black horse he could
have ridden circles around that posse all day. But Grey Molly was
a different problem. She was not a force to be simply directed and
controlled. She was something to be helped. Her very weakness, compared
with the stallion, appealed to him. And it was a thril