o this cunning, he was well mounted, his horse being almost equal in
speed to Whetstone, it seemed, at the beginning of the race.

Lambert pushed him as hard as he thought wise, conserving his horse for
the advantage that he knew he would have while the fence-cutter stopped
to make himself an outlet. The fellow rode hard, unsparing of his
quirt, jumping his long-legged horse over rocks and across ravines.

It was in one of these leaps that Lambert saw something fall from the
saddle holster. He found it to be the nippers with which the fence had
been cut, lying in the bottom of the deep arroyo. He rode down and
recovered the tool, in no hurry now, for he was quite certain that the
fence-cutter would not have another. He would discover his loss when he
came to the fence, and then, if he was not entirely the coward and sneak
that his actions seemed to brand him, he would have recourse to another
tool.

It did not take them long to finish the three-mile race across the
pasture, and it turned out in the end exactly as Lambert thought it
would. When the fugitive came within a few rods of the fence he put his
hand down to the holster for his nippers, discovering his loss. Then he
looked back to see how closely he was pressed, which was very close
indeed.

Lambert felt that he did not want to be the aggressor, even on his own
land, in spite of the determination he had reached for such a
contingency as this. He recalled what Vesta had said about the
impossibility of securing a conviction for cutting a fence. Surely if a
man could not be held responsible for this act in the courts of the
country, it would fare hard with one who might kill him in the
commission of the outrage. Let him draw first, and then----

The fellow rode at the fence as if he intended to try to jump it. His
horse balked at the barrier, turned, raced along it, Lambert in close
pursuit, coming alongside him as he was reaching to draw his pistol from
the holster at his saddle bow. And in that instant, as the fleeing rider
bent tugging at the gun which seemed to be strapped in the holster,
Lambert saw that it was not a man.

A strand of dark hair had fallen from under the white sombrero; it was
dropping lower and lower as it uncoiled from its anchorage. Lambert
pressed his horse forward a few feet, leaned far over and snatched away
the hand that struggled to unbuckle the weapon.

She turned on him, her face scarlet in its fury, their horses racing
side by