man or sheepherder, he would lie
hid until the first fury of the hunt had subsided. Possibly his bold
brain even conceived the idea of again returning to San Mateo some
dark night soon and further looting the office, vigilance being
relaxed.

In any case, he would expect to remain safe from pursuit in a mountain
fastness until either on horseback or by automobile he could work his
way out of the country. With what he had unquestionably carried off he
would not be a poor man. In some spot far away he could assume a new
name, start in business and later be joined by his wife and crippled
son.

Alas, for those plans, arising like mushrooms on the ruins of his
life! Behind him followed the same inexorable antagonist who so
swiftly had brought everything crashing about his head. Possibly
Sorenson once out of the town had failed to look back; possibly
looking back he had been unable to distinguish against the blur of
houses and trees the horseman galloping in the moonlight along the
same road.

But all at once when they were two miles away from San Mateo he
discovered Weir, who had been gradually cutting down the space between
until now again he was within a quarter of a mile of his quarry.
Sorenson had been riding rapidly but not hard; he now beat his horse
to a furious gallop,--a good pony, too, from its speed, showing that
the banker as well as Weir had picked his mount with care.

Weir did not urge his horse to a similar pace, only maintaining a fast
steady gallop that kept the other in sight though the space between
again widened. Apparently Sorenson realized the folly of attempting to
outrun, his pursuer at once, for he soon dropped back into a regular,
mile-eating gallop. Gradually in turn Weir crept up to his old
position.

To each the only sound was that of drumming hoof-beats. In front rode
the fleeing man--dethroned leader and criminal and murderer. Behind
relentlessly came his Nemesis, the son of the man whom he had deceived
and damned to mental suffering. All about them as they flew along was
the silent, moonlit, sage-covered mesa. At their right towered the
misty, unchanging peaks, as if watching unmoved this strange race of
two human beings. A strange race, in truth,--a race where vengeance
rode.

CHAPTER XXX

THE VICTOR

Ten miles the two men had gone when Sorenson's horse began to fail.
The rider's weight was proving too much for the sturdy little animal
and though he strove to maintain h