Percy Darrow, with the keenness that always characterised his mental
apprehension, had understood enough of my strangled cry. He had not
hesitated nor delayed for an explanation, but had turned track and
was now running as fast as his long legs would carry him back toward
the opening of the ravine. My companions stood watching him, but making
no attempt either to shoot or to follow. For a moment I could not
understand this, then remembered the disappearance of Perdosa. My
heart jumped wildly, for the Mexican had been gone quite long enough
to have cut off the assistant's escape. I could not doubt that he
would pick off his man at close range as soon as the fugitive should
have reached the entrance to the arroyo.

There can be no question that he would have done so had not his
Mexican impatience betrayed him. He shot too soon. Percy Darrow
stopped in his tracks. Although we heard the bullet sing by us, for
an instant we thought he was hit. Then Perdosa fired a second time,
again without result. Darrow turned sharp to the left and began desperately
to scale the steep cliffs.

I once took part in a wild boar hunt on the coast of California. Our
dogs had penned a small band at the head of a narrow _barranca_,
from which a single steep trail led over the hill. We, perched on
another hill some three or four hundred yards away, shot at the
animals as they toiled up the trail. The range was long, but we had
time, for the severity of the climb forced the boars to a foot pace.

It was exactly like that. Percy Darrow had two hundred feet of ascent
to make. He could go just so fast; must consume just so much time in
his snail-like progress up the face of the hill. During that time he
furnished an excellent target, and the loose sandstone showed where
each shot struck.

A significant indication was that the men did not take the trouble
to get nearer, for which manoeuvre they would have had time in plenty,
but distributed themselves leisurely for a shooting match.

"First shot," claimed Handy Solomon, and without delay fired off-hand.
A puff of dust showed to the right. "Nerve no good," he commented,
"jerked her just as I pulled."

Pulz fired from the knee. The dust this time puffed below.

"Thought she'd carry up at that distance," he muttered.

The Nigger, too, missed, and Thrackles grinned triumphantly.

"I get a show," said he. He spread his massive legs apart, drew a deep
breath, and raised his weapon. It lay in his