youth, back in Kentucky, he had ridden hunters. That
fence came exactly to the top of his head, and the top of his head was
six feet and two inches from the ground. To make assurance doubly sure
he dropped upon one knee and made that shotgun an unstirring part and
portion of himself.

Nobly, nobly the black came on, his ears pricking as he judged the great
task and his head carried a little high and back as any good jumper
knows his head must be carried.

The practiced eye of the farmer watched the outlaw gather his horse
under him. Well he knew the meaning of that shortening grip on the
reins to give the horse the last little lift that might mean success
or failure in the jump. Well he knew that rise in the stirrups, that
leaning forward, and his heart rose in unison and went back to the blue
grass of Kentucky glittering in the sun.

Before them went the wolf-dog, skimming low, reached the fence, and shot
over it in a graceful, high-arched curve.

Then the shout of the rider: "Up! Up!"

And the stallion reared and leaped. He seemed to graze it coming up,
so close was his take-off; he seemed to be pawing his way over with the
forefeet; and then with both legs doubled close, hugging his body,
he shot across and left the highest strand of the wire quivering and
humming.

The farmer hurled his best shotgun a dozen yards away and threw up his
hat.

"Go it, lad! God bless ye; and good luck!"

The hand of the rider lifted in mute acknowledgment, and as he shot
past, the farmer caught a glimpse of a delicately handsome face that
smiled down at him.

"The left gate! The left gate!" he shouted through his cupped hands,
and as the fugitive rushed through the upper gate he turned to face
the posse which was already pulling up at the fence and drawing their
wirecutters.

As Barry shot out onto the higher ground on the other side of the
farmhouse he could see them severing the wires and the interruption of
the chase would be only a matter of seconds. But seconds counted triply
now, and the halt and the time they would spend getting up impetus all
told in favor of the fugitive.

Thirty-five miles, or thereabouts, since they left Rickett that morning,
and still the black ran smoothly, with a lilt to his gallop. Dan Barry
lifted his head and his whistling soared and pulsed and filled the air.
It made Bart come back to him; it made Satan toss his head and glance at
the master from the corner of his bright eye, for this wa