y.

The day was paling towards the end when he headed into the foothills of
the White Mountains. He drew up Molly for a breath on a level shoulder.
Already he was close to the snow line with ragged heads of white rearing
above him. Far below, a pale streak of moonlight was the Asper. Then,
out of that blacker night on the slopes beneath, he heard the clinking
hoofs of the posse; the quiet was so perfect, the air so clear, that he
even caught the chorus of straining saddle leather and then voices of
men. All this time the effects of the whisky had been wearing away by
imperceptible degrees and at that sound all his old self rushed back on
Vic Gregg. Why, they were his friends, his partners, these voices in the
night, and that clear laughter floated up from Harry Fisher who had been
his bunkie at the Circle V Bar ranch three years ago. He felt an insane
impulse to lean over the edge of the cliff and shout a greeting.

Chapter VI. The Rifle

Dawn found him over the first crest; at noon he was struggling up the
slope of the second range, whose rise was not half so sharp as the
upward plunge out of the Asper, but in spite of that easier ground Grey
Molly could not gain. She went with shorter steps, now, and her head
hung lower and lower, yet when a down stretch opened before her she went
at it with a gallop as light, almost, as her race out of Murphy's Pass.
Not once had she offered to stop; not once had she winced from the labor
of some sharp up-pitch; but still six horsemen hung behind her, and at
their head rode a little dusty man on a little dusty roan. It was the
lack of training as well as the rough going which held Molly back.

Beyond that second range, however, the down slope stretched smoothly,
evenly, for mile on mile and mile on mile; perfect going for Grey Molly
over easy hills with patches of forest here and there where he might
double, or where he might stop with the hunt sweeping past. All this the
sheriff must have known perfectly well, for he no longer kept back with
his pack of five, but skirted on ahead, hunting alone. Again and again
Vic heard the little shrill whistle with which Pete Glass encouraged the
roan. Vic used the spurs twice, and then he desisted from the useless
brutality for Molly was doing her best and no power on earth could
make her do more. After all, her best would be good enough, for now Vic
looked up and his heart leaped into his throat; there was only one more
rise above him, a