but the times when it
spurted grew less frequent; it made increasingly harder work of pulling
its hoofs out of the deep sand; it staggered and lurched on the hard
stretches.

Masten looked back frequently now. The grim, relentless figure behind him
grew grotesque and gigantic in his thoughts, and once, when he felt the
pony beneath him go to its knees, he screamed hysterically. But the pony
clambered to its feet again and staggered on, to fall again a minute
later. Catherson's pony, its strength conserved for this ordeal, came on
steadily, its rider carefully avoiding the soft sand, profiting by
Masten's experiences with it. It was not until he saw Catherson within
fifty feet of him that Masten divined that he was not to be shot. For at
that distance he made a fair target, and Catherson made no movement
toward his gun. The nester was still silent; he had spoken no word. He
spoke none now, as he hung relentlessly to his prey, seeming, to Masten's
distorted mind and vision, a hideous, unnatural and ghastly figure of
death.

Catherson had drawn nearer. He was not more than thirty feet away when
Masten's pony went down again. It fell with a looseness and finality that
told Masten of the end. And Masten slipped his feet out of the stirrups,
throwing himself free and alighting on his hands and knees in front of
the exhausted animal. He got up, and started to run, desperately,
sobbing, his lips slavering from terror. But he turned, after running a
few feet, to see Catherson coming after him. The nester was uncoiling a
rope from his saddle horn, and at this sight Masten shrieked and went to
his knees. He heard an answering laugh from Catherson, short, malevolent.
And then the rope swished out, its loop widening and writhing. Masten
shrieked again, and threw up his hands impotently.

* * * * *

Later, Catherson brought his pony to a halt, far from where the rope had
been cast, and looked grimly down at his fellow being, prone and
motionless in the deep sand at his feet.

Unmoved, remorseless, Catherson had cut short the pleadings, the
screaming, the promises. He had not bungled his work, and it had been
done. But as he looked down now, the muscles of his face quivered. And
now he spoke the first word that had passed his lips since he had left
the Flying W ranchhouse:

"I reckon you've got what's been comin' to you!"

He got down, unfastened the rope, deliberately re-coiled it a