sharp yells, as much as his cruel spurs, drove his horse
into that pace which now meant life or death for him. And never had
Duane bestrode a gamer, swifter, stancher beast. He seemed about to
accomplish the impossible. In the dragging sand he was far superior to
any horse in pursuit, and on this sandy open stretch he gained enough
to spare a little in the brush beyond. Heated now and thoroughly
terrorized, he kept the pace through thickets that almost tore Duane
from his saddle. Something weighty and grim eased off Duane. He was
going to get out in front! The horse had speed, fire, stamina.

Duane dashed out into another open place dotted by few trees, and here,
right in his path, within pistol-range, stood horsemen waiting. They
yelled, they spurred toward him, but did not fire at him. He turned his
horse--faced to the right. Only one thing kept him from standing his
ground to fight it out. He remembered those dangling limp figures
hanging from the cottonwoods. These ranchers would rather hang an outlaw
than do anything. They might draw all his fire and then capture him. His
horror of hanging was so great as to be all out of proportion compared
to his gun-fighter's instinct of self-preservation.

A race began then, a dusty, crashing drive through gray mesquite. Duane
could scarcely see, he was so blinded by stinging branches across his
eyes. The hollow wind roared in his ears. He lost his sense of the
nearness of his pursuers. But they must have been close. Did they
shoot at him? He imagined he heard shots. But that might have been
the cracking of dead snags. His left arm hung limp, almost useless; he
handled the rein with his right; and most of the time he hung low over
the pommel. The gray walls flashing by him, the whip of twigs, the rush
of wind, the heavy, rapid pound of hoofs, the violent motion of his
horse--these vied in sensation with the smart of sweat in his eyes, the
rack of his wound, the cold, sick cramp in his stomach. With these also
was dull, raging fury. He had to run when he wanted to fight. It took
all his mind to force back that bitter hate of himself, of his pursuers,
of this race for his useless life.

Suddenly he burst out of a line of mesquite into the road. A long
stretch of lonely road! How fiercely, with hot, strange joy, he wheeled
his horse upon it! Then he was sweeping along, sure now that he was out
in front. His horse still had strength and speed, but showed signs of
breaking. Prese