wheat, trampling it under
the flying hoofs; the hounds hot on the scent, baying continually; the
men, on fresh mounts, secured at the division house, bending forward in
their saddles, spurring relentlessly. S. Behrman jolted along far in the
rear.

And even then, harried through an open country, where there was no place
to hide, it was a matter of amazement how long a chase the highwayman
led them. Fences were passed; fences whose barbed wire had been slashed
apart by the fugitive's knife. The ground rose under foot; the hills
were at hand; still the pursuit held on. The sun, long past the
meridian, began to turn earthward. Would night come on before they were
up with him?

"Look! Look! There he is! Quick, there he goes!"

High on the bare slope of the nearest hill, all the posse, looking in
the direction of Delaney's gesture, saw the figure of a horseman emerge
from an arroyo, filled with chaparral, and struggle at a labouring
gallop straight up the slope. Suddenly, every member of the party
shouted aloud. The horse had fallen, pitching the rider from the saddle.
The man rose to his feet, caught at the bridle, missed it and the horse
dashed on alone. The man, pausing for a second looked around, saw the
chase drawing nearer, then, turning back, disappeared in the chaparral.
Delaney raised a great whoop.

"We've got you now." Into the slopes and valleys of the hills dashed
the band of horsemen, the trail now so fresh that it could be easily
discerned by all. On and on it led them, a furious, wild scramble
straight up the slopes. The minutes went by. The dry bed of a rivulet
was passed; then another fence; then a tangle of manzanita; a meadow of
wild oats, full of agitated cattle; then an arroyo, thick with chaparral
and scrub oaks, and then, without warning, the pistol shots ripped out
and ran from rider to rider with the rapidity of a gatling discharge,
and one of the deputies bent forward in the saddle, both hands to his
face, the blood jetting from between his fingers.

Dyke was there, at bay at last, his back against a bank of rock, the
roots of a fallen tree serving him as a rampart, his revolver smoking in
his hand.

"You're under arrest, Dyke," cried the sheriff. "It's not the least use
to fight. The whole country is up."

Dyke fired again, the shot splintering the foreleg of the horse the
sheriff rode.

The posse, four men all told--the wounded deputy having crawled out
of the fight after Dyke's first