make it all right before they close in if you travel fast. Stop once--just
once--and I'll drop you in your tracks. Now git!"

She saw his object in a flash. Wearing his gray felt hat and his coat, the
pursuers would mistake her for him. They would follow her--perhaps shoot
her down. Anyhow, it would be a diversion to draw them from him. Meanwhile
he would climb the cliff and slip away unnoticed.

The danger of what she had to do stood out quite clearly, but as a chance
to get away from him she welcomed it gladly. She swung the pony with a
touch of the rein and set him instantly at the canter. It was rough going,
but she took it almost blindly.

From the lip of the gulch she swung abruptly to the right. Her horse
stumbled and went down just as a bullet flew over her head. Before she was
free of the stirrups strong hands pinned her shoulders to the ground. She
heard a glad startled cry. The rough hands became immediately gentle. Then
things grew black. The last she remembered was that the mountains were
dancing up and down in an odd fashion.

Her eyes opened to see Curly. She was in his arms and his face was broken
with emotions of love and tenderness.

"You're not hurt," he implored.

"No."

"He didn't--mistreat you?" His voice was trembling as he whispered it.

"No--No."

And at that she broke down. A deep sob shook her body--and another. She
buried her head on his shoulder and wept.

* * * * *

Without losing an instant the convict set himself at the climb. His haste,
the swift glances shot behind him, the appalling dread that made his
nerves ragged, delayed his speed by dissipating the singleness of his
energy. His face and hands were torn with catclaw, his knee bruised by a
slip against a sharp jut of quartz.

When he reached the top he was panting and shaken. Before he had moved a
dozen steps a man came out of the brush scarce seventy-five yards away and
called to him to surrender. He flung his rifle to place and fired twice.

The man staggered and steadied himself. A shell had jammed and Blackwell
could not throw it out. He turned to run as the other fired. But he was
too late. He stumbled, tripped, and went down full length.

The man that had shot him waited for him to rise. The convict did not
move. Cautiously the wounded hunter came forward, his eyes never lifting
from the inert sprawling figure. Even now he half expected him to spring
up, life and energ