rmally he could not have failed to hear the
chuff-chuff of the approaching Ford. As he swung into the saddle he
saw it out of the corner of his eye and ducked. The vision of two
men--an excited yell and an oath--they were almost on top of him when
the twin took a healthy dose of the mixture and got away. Another
second and they would have ridden him down. Barraclough swerved to the
left to cut a corner and opened up. Harrison Smith did likewise,
choking his engine with too wide a throttle and losing a dozen yards in
half that number of seconds.

"Shoot, blast you! Shoot, you blasted fool!" he roared at Dirk.

Barraclough heard the order and swept over to the right to disturb the
aim as a couple of leaden hornets buzzed angrily past his ear striking
the macadam a hundred yards ahead and whining away into the distance.

Freddie Dirk's execution with an automatic was below the quality of his
Mascot work. He cursed fluently as the shots flew wide and tried to
steady his aim by resting the Colt on the iron crosspiece of the wind
screen.

"Take the wheel--take the wheel, damn you," cried Harrison Smith,
snatching at the pistol with his left hand. "You can't shoot that way."

Somehow they contrived to change places. A sharp rise in the ground
had perceptibly slackened the speed of Barraclough's mount and he
reduced his lead still further by hanging on to the top gear a couple
of seconds too long. The Ford, on the other hand, was beginning to
improve and leapt at the hill eagerly. No more than fifty yards
separated pursued from pursuer.

Harrison Smith sat on the back of the driving seat and bided his time.
A glance ahead showed him the road winding up interminably at the very
incline at which a Ford car develops its greatest efficiency and goes
sailing past nearly everything else on the road.

"Got him," he said, "got him cold."

This comforting reflection awoke in his breast a sporting fancy. After
all it was more fun to shoot a man than to ride him down.

The little twin in front was labouring bravely at the hill, but its
muffled exhaust was pleading unmistakably for still another change
down. Barraclough knew very well that were he to accept this
invitation he would be lost. The only hope was to keep in second and
pray hard that the engine wouldn't conk out. A glance over his
shoulder revealed the Ford bounding up the hill toward him. Then it
was Harrison Smith fired. Barraclough saw the flash out