r square of white ran up the dead pine to carry its
word that the race was now a two man race. The fifty yards between
MacKelvey and Shandon lengthened as Shandon was forced to put Little
Saxon to his best. For MacKelvey was shooting as he rode and he was
not shooting for fun; there was no man in the county who wasted less
lead than its sheriff.

Suddenly the knoll was deserted. Even Willie Dart had scrambled to his
horse, even he was chasing along wildly, oblivious of the steep pitch,
of a more than likely fall. To Big Bill's voice had joined other
voices, shouting to MacKelvey to give the man a chance. But MacKelvey
did not listen.

They tried to push their horses between him and the man it was his
sworn duty to bring into court. But MacKelvey kept to the fore,
realising that they would try to do just this thing. He raised himself
in his stirrups and as his hand went up he fired for the third time.
The cry that burst out after the shot was full of anger, for every one
had seen Red Shandon suddenly crumple in his saddle. But Little Saxon,
running as he had never run before, toward the trees that were
thickening in front of him, swerved off to the left and was lost to the
eyes of the men sixty and seventy-five yards behind. There the
hammering of his hoofs came back to them from the hard ground of
another ridge.

"If you've killed him," grunted Big Bill into MacKelvey's ear as his
horse came abreast of the sheriff's, "you might as well make a clean-up
and get me, too."

But in a moment they again caught sight of Little Saxon through the
trees, and they saw that Wayne Shandon was still in the saddle, sitting
bolt upright, that he had shifted his reins to his right hand, that his
left arm was swinging grotesquely at his side.

"I got him," grunted MacKelvey.

Already, with close to ten miles ahead of him, with Hume still a
quarter of a mile to the fore, Wayne Shandon's face had turned white,
his shirt was slowly turning red. The bullet from the heavy calibre
revolver MacKelvey used had struck in the shoulder.

"He's swerved out of his course," was MacKelvey's next thought. "He is
losing ground right now. I'll cut him off before he can get to the
bridge."

In the moment that the impact of the bullet made Shandon crumple and
reel and clutch at his saddle horn, he went dizzy, almost blind with
the shock. In that moment Little Saxon feeling the reins drop upon his
neck, turned out to the left, striking