fell back half a length and raised his voice so as to be heard
above the flying feet. "Hasn't she gone back to New York, I'd like to
know, and left you to get out of it the best way you can? She could 'a'
stayed if she'd wanted to. Don't tell me! Haven't I seen how she bosses
her mother round? No, sir! She's willing to let you hang to save herself
a little slander--or, more likely, a little talk!"

Jeff whirled his horse to his haunches, but once more Gibson was too
quick for him. Gibson's horse was naturally the nimbler of the two, even
without the advantage of spurs.

"That's a lie! She was going to tell--she was bound to tell; I made her
keep silent. After I jumped out she couldn't well say anything. That's
why I jumped. Was I going to make her a target for such vile tongues as
yours--for me? Oh! You ought to be shot out of a red-hot cannon, through
a barbed-wire fence, into hell! You lie, you coward, you know you lie!
I'll cram it down your throat if you'll get off and throw that gun
down!"

"Yah! It's likely I'll put the gun down!" scoffed Gibson. "Ride on, you
fool! Do you want to hang? Ride on and keep ahead! Remember, I've got
the gun!"

"Hanging's not so bad," snarled Jeff. "I'd rather be hung decently than
be such a thing as you! Oh, if I just had a gun!"

The sound of pursuit was clearer now; and, of course, the pursuers could
hear the pursued as well and fought for every inch.

Jeff rode on, furious at his helplessness. For several miles his
tormentor raced behind in silence, fearing, if he persisted longer in
his evil course, that Jeff would actually stop and give himself up. They
gained now on their pursuers, who had pressed their horses overhard to
make up the five-mile handicap.

As they came to a patch of sandy ground they eased the pace somewhat.
Charley drew a little closer to Jeff.

"Now don't get mad. I had no idea you thought so much of the girl----"

"Shut up, will you?"

"----or I wouldn't have deviled you so. I'll quit. How was I to know
you'd stop to fight for her with the very rope round your neck? It's a
pity she'll never know about it.... You can't have seen her more than
two or three times--and Heaven only knows where that was! On that
camping trip, I reckon. What kind of a girl is she, anyhow, to hold
clandestine interviews with a stranger?... She'll write to you by and
by--a little scented note, with a little stilted, meaningless word of
thanks. No, she won't. It'll be gushy: