such men would do would be to leave it--they
were both doomed.

This comrade of Card's whirled far around in his saddle, and he even
shaded his eyes from the sun. He, too, looked long. Then, all at once,
he faced ahead again and, bending lower in the saddle, began to fling
his right arm up and down. That flinging Venters knew to be the lashing
of Bells. Jerry also became active. And the three racers lengthened out
into a run.

"Now, Wrangle!" cried Venters. "Run, you big devil! Run!"

Venters laid the reins on Wrangle's neck and dropped the loop over
the pommel. The sorrel needed no guiding on that smooth trail. He was
surer-footed in a run than at any other fast gait, and his running gave
the impression of something devilish. He might now have been actuated by
Venters's spirit; undoubtedly his savage running fitted the mood of his
rider. Venters bent forward swinging with the horse, and gripped his
rifle. His eye measured the distance between him and Jerry Card.

In less than two miles of running Bells began to drop behind the blacks,
and Wrangle began to overhaul him. Venters anticipated that the rustler
would soon take to the sage. Yet he did not. Not improbably he reasoned
that the powerful sorrel could more easily overtake Bells in the heavier
going outside of the trail. Soon only a few hundred yards lay between
Bells and Wrangle. Turning in his saddle, the rustler began to shoot,
and the bullets beat up little whiffs of dust. Venters raised his rifle,
ready to take snap shots, and waited for favorable opportunity when
Bells was out of line with the forward horses. Venters had it in him
to kill these men as if they were skunk-bitten coyotes, but also he had
restraint enough to keep from shooting one of Jane's beloved Arabians.

No great distance was covered, however, before Bells swerved to the
left, out of line with Black Star and Night. Then Venters, aiming high
and waiting for the pause between Wrangle's great strides, began to take
snap shots at the rustler. The fleeing rider presented a broad target
for a rifle, but he was moving swiftly forward and bobbing up and down.
Moreover, shooting from Wrangle's back was shooting from a thunderbolt.
And added to that was the danger of a low-placed bullet taking effect
on Bells. Yet, despite these considerations, making the shot exceedingly
difficult, Venters's confidence, like his implacability, saw a speedy
and fatal termination of that rustler's race. On the sixt