ave something of shelter to the Comanches, who
were now fleeing for their lives.

Flinging themselves forward on the necks of their steeds, who were as
fleet as those of their pursuers, with the brush swaying on all sides,
they became such bad targets that only chance or wonderful skill could
tumble them to the earth.

Gleeson was so close to the savage he had singled out as his special
target, and his own steed coursed so swiftly through the bush, that it
looked as if he would down his man. The fugitive was hardly visible, as
he stretched forward, not upon his horse's neck, but along the further
side and almost under it. About the only part of his person within reach
was his foot, the toes of which were curved over the spine of his
animal, and his left arm, which clasped the neck from below.

It was useless, therefore, for the Texan to try any sort of aim, and
when he discharged his pistol now and then, until the chambers were
emptied, it was with the same hope as before, that by accident one of
the missiles would reach home.

But this little amusement was not to be entirely on the side of the
pursuer. Suddenly there was a flash beneath the neck of the mustang, a
resounding report, and the bullet grazed the temple of the enthusiastic
cowboy.

"Well done, old fellow," he muttered, shoving his smaller weapon in his
holster, and bringing his Winchester round in front; "it makes things
more lively when they are not one-sided."

He bent forward, and, sighting as best he could, fired. A whinnying
scream rang out in the confusion, and the mustang plunged forward on his
knees and rolled over on his side, stone dead because of the bullet that
had bored its way through his brain.

Such a mishap would have been fatal to the majority of riders, but the
wonderful activity of the Comanche saved him from harm because of the
fall of his animal. He struck the ground on his feet, and showed a
tremendous burst of speed, as he took up the interrupted flight of his
horse, keeping straight on, without darting to the right or left.

"I've got you now," exclaimed the exultant Texan, holding the nose of
his animal toward him.

Astonishing as was the fleetness of the Comanche, it could not equal
that of the intelligent mustang, that knew what was needed from him. He
wanted no guidance from his rider, who was therefore left free to
manipulate his Winchester as best he could with the brush whipping about
him.

All at once the gun was