t the lurch and lameness of the
car, and steadied it back upon its road. He did not retreat by so much
as a hair the lever advancing his spark. He did not budge the gas
control, but left it still wide open. If all of his tires should blow
out together he would not halt his pace. He would drive that car to
destruction, or to triumph in the race.

Searle's rejoicing endured but the briefest span. His motor had begun
again to splutter, in mechanical death. Then, with a sudden memory,
sweat broke out on Bostwick's face. His gasolene was gone! He had
thoroughly intended refilling his tank, having barely had a sufficient
supply to run him from the claim to camp; and this had been neglected.

His car bumped slowly for a score of yards, then died by the side of
the road. He leaped out madly, to assure himself the tank was really
dry. He cursed, he raved. It seemed absurd for this big, hot creature
to be dead. And meantime, like a whirlwind coming on, Van Buren was
crashing down upon him.

"By God!" he cried, "I'll fix you for this!" and a wild thought flashed
to his mind--a thought of taking Van Buren's car and fleeing as before.

He leaped in the tonneau and caught up a heavy revolver, stored beneath
the seat. He glanced at the cylinder. Four of the cartridges only
were unused. He remained inside the "fort" of the car, with the weapon
cocked and lowered out of sight.

Charging down like a meteor, melting its very course, Van and the red
car came by leaps and plunges. He was shutting off the power
gradually, but still rushing up with frightening speed, when Bostwick
raised his gun and fired.

The bullet went wide, and Van came on. Bostwick steadied and fired
again. There was no such thing as halting the demon in the car. But
the target's size was rapidly increasing! Nevertheless, the third shot
missed, like the others. Would the madman never halt?

Bostwick dropped a knee to the floor, steadied the barrel on the
cushion, lined up the sights, and pulled the trigger.

With the roar of the weapon Van abruptly drooped. The bullet had
pierced his shoulder. And he still came on. His face had suddenly
paled; his lips had hardened in a manner new to his face. He halted
the car, aware that his foe had exhausted his ammunition, since no more
shots were fired.

His own big gun he drew deliberately. To sustain himself, through the
shock of his wound, was draining the utmost of his nerve. He was
hardly