orton, too, was running, bearing down upon the straggling
horses. He caught up the first dragging reins to lay his hand to,
swung up into the saddle, measured swiftly the distance between
Galloway and the men on the mountain . . . and used his spurs.

On came Jim Galloway, his wide, heavy shoulders not to be mistaken in
the rich moonlight, his hat gone, his head up, a rifle across the
saddle in front of him. Norton lost sight of him as he swept down into
the bed of the arroyo, caught sight of him again from the farther side.
Already Galloway was appreciably nearer his men, driving his horse
mercilessly.

"If he comes to his crowd before I can stop him," was Norton's thought,
"he'll put his game across on us yet. I've got to head him off and
take the chances."

Nor were the odds to be overlooked. Galloway was still too far away to
be stopped by a rifle-ball, and Norton, heading him off, would expose
himself not only to Galloway's fire but to that of the men who were
moving to a lower slope to meet their leader. And yet, with fate in
the balance, here was no time for hesitation.

Now Galloway had seen him, had recognized him, perhaps, the thought
coming naturally to him that it would be Roderick Norton who rode to
cut him off. He shifted his rifle so that his right hand was on the
grip, the barrel caught in his left; he had dropped his horse's reins.
Norton was slipping a fresh clip into his gun, his own reins now upon
his horse's neck. And now both men knew that unless a bullet stopped
him Norton would cut across Galloway's path before he could come to his
men.

"At him, Roddy, old boy! We're coming!"

Norton glanced over his shoulder and pressed on. Brocky had missed
him, had seen, had called back a half dozen of his men and was
following. Well, if he dropped, maybe Brocky and the others could get
Jim Galloway. It really began to look as though Galloway had played
out his string.

They were firing from the mountainside now, the bullets thus far flying
wild of their rushing target. Norton shook his head and urged his
horse to fresh endeavor. In a moment he would be fairly between
Galloway and Galloway's last chance. His eye picked out the spot where
he would dismount at that moment, a tumble of big boulders. He would
swing down so that they would be between him and the mountain, so that
nothing but moonlit open space lay between him and Jim Galloway.

While rifles cracked and spat fire and spraye