r to follow, he was off.

Riding at top speed, cleaving the air, till it whistles past his ears,
with eyes strained forward, he sees the changed attitude of the troops.

He reflects not on it; all his thoughts becoming engrossed, all his
energies bent, upon taking part in the pursuit, and still more in the
fight he hopes will follow. He presses on in a diagonal line between
pursued and pursuers. His splendid steed now shows its good qualities,
and gladly he sees he is gaining upon both. With like gladness that
they are nearing one another, the short-striding mustangs being no match
for the long legged American horses. As yet not a shot has been fired.
The distance is still too great for the range of rifles, and
backwoodsmen do not idly waste ammunition. The only sounds heard are
the trampling of the hooves, and the occasional neigh of a horse. The
riders are all silent, in both troops alike--one in the mute eagerness
of flight, the other with the stern earnestness of pursuit.

And now puffs of smoke arise over each, with jets of flame projected
outward. Shots, at first dropping and single, then in thick rattling
fusillade. Along with them cries of encouragement, mingled with shouts
of defiance. Then a wild "hurrah," the charging cheers the colonists
close upon the outlaws.

Clancy rides straight for the fray. In front he sees the plain shrouded
in dense sulphureous mist, at intervals illumined by yellow flashes.
Another spurt, and, passing through the thin outer strata of smoke, he
is in the thick of the conflict--among men on horseback grappling other
mounted men, endeavouring to drag them out of the saddle--some afoot,
fighting in pairs, firing pistols, or with naked knives, hewing away at
one another!

He sees that the fight is nigh finished, and the robbers routed. Some
are dismounted, on their knees crying "quarter," and piteously appealing
for mercy.

Where is Sime Woodley? Has his old comrade been killed?

Half frantic with this fear, he rashes distractedly over the ground,
calling out the backwoodsman's name. He is answered by another--by Ned
Heywood, who staggers to his side, bleeding, his face blackened with
powder.

"You are wounded, Heywood?"

"Yes; or I wouldn't be here."

"Why?"

"Because Sime--"

"Where is he?"

"Went that way in chase o' a big brute of a fellow. I've jest spied
them passin' through the smoke. For God's sake, after! Sime may stand
in need o' ye."

Clanc