and the flow of
blood told rapidly on him now. The hills and trees whirled around him
until a lean, strong hand caught him under either armpit. The stranger
stood close.

"You could have my hoss if you could ride him," said he. His voice was
singularly unhurried and gentle. "But you'd drop out of the saddle in
ten minutes. Who's after you?"

A voice shouted far off beyond the wood; another voice answered, nearer,
and the whole soul of Gregg turned to the stallion. Grey Molly was
blown, she stood now with hanging head and her flanks sunk in alarmingly
at every breath, but even fresh from the pasture she was not a rag, not
a straw compared to the black.

"For God's sake," groaned Vic, "loan me your hoss!"

"You couldn't stick the saddle. Come in here out of sight; I'm going to
take 'em off your trail."

While he spoke, he led, half carried Vic, into a thicket of shrubs with
a small open space at the center. The black and the wolf-dog followed
and now the stranger pulled at the bridle rein. The stallion kneeled
like a trained dog, and lying thus the shrubbery was high enough to
hide him. Closer, sweeping through the wood, Vic heard the crash of the
pursuit, yet the other was maddeningly slow of speech.

"You stay here, partner, and sit over there. I'm borrowin' your gun"--a
swift hand appropriated it from Vic's holster and his own fingers were
too paralyzed to resist--"and don't you try to ride my hoss unless you
want them teeth in your throat. Lie quiet and tie up your hurt. Bart,
watch him!"

And there sat Gregg where he had slipped down in his daze of weakness
with the great dog crouched at his feet and snarling ominously every
time he raised his hand. The voices came closer; the crashing burst on
his very ears, and now, through the interstices of the shrubbery he
saw the stranger swing into the saddle on Grey Molly and urge her to a
gallop. He could follow them for only an instant with his eyes, but it
seemed to Vic that Molly cantered under her new rider with strange ease
and lightness. It was partly the rest, no doubt, and partly the smaller
burden.

A deep beat of racing hoofs, and then the dusty roan shot out of the
trees close by with the sheriff leaning forward, jockeying his horse.
It seemed that no living thing could escape from that relentless rider.
Then right behind Vic a horse snorted and grunted--as it leaped a fallen
log, perhaps--and he watched in alarm to see if the stallion would
answer that