d by God, we'll run him down. I'm startin!"

He made his word good with an Indian yell and a wave of his hat that
sent his buckskin leaping straight into the air, to land with stiff
legs, "swallowing its head," but then it straightened out in earnest.
That buckskin had a name from Bly Falls to Caswell City speed and
courage, and it lived up to the record in the time of need. Close behind
it came Lew and Garry ponies scarcely slower than the buckskin, and they
closed rapidly on Satan. The plan of Retherton was plain: now that the
black was running on its nerve a spurt might bring them within striking
distance and if they could check the flight for an instant by opening
advance guard fire, they might drive the fugitive into a corner by the
river and hold him there until the main body the posse came up. The
three of them running alone the lead could do five yards for every four
of the slow horses, and the effect showed at once.

Going up a slope the trot of the stallion maintained or even increased
his lead, but when they reached the easier ground beyond they drew
rapidly upon him. They saw Barry bend low; they saw the stallion
increase its pace.

"By God," shouted Retherton in involuntary admonition, "I'd rather have
that hoss than the ten thousand. But feed 'em the spurs, boys, and he'll
come back to us inside a mile."

And Retherton was right. Before that mile was over the black slipped
back inch by inch, until at length Retherton called: "Now grab your guns
boys and see if you can salt him down with lead. Give your hosses their
heads and turn loose!"

They pulled their guns to their shoulders and sent a volley at the
outlaw. One bullet clipped a spark from the rocks just behind the
stallion's feet; the other two must have gone wide. Once more Barry
flinched closer over the neck of Satan and once again the horse answered
with a fresh burst of speed, but in a few moments he came back to them.
Flesh could not stand that pace after seventy-five miles of running.

They saw the rider straighten and look back; then the sun flashed on his
rifle.

"Feed 'em the spur!" shouted Retherton. "If we can't hit him shooting
ahead, he ain't got a chance to hit us shootin' backwards." For it is
notoriously hard to turn in the saddle and accomplish anything with
a rifle. One is moving away from the target instead of toward it, and
every condition of ordinary shooting is reversed; above all, the moment
a man turns his head he is co