All that was seen by Mark Retherton through his glasses, though they were almost close enough now to see details through the naked eye.He turned in the saddle to the posse, grim faces, sweat and dust clotted in their moustaches, their faces drawn and gray with streaks over the nose and under the eyes where perspiration ran.They rode crookedly, now, for seventy miles at full speed had racked them, twisted them, cramped their muscles.
Scotty kept his head tilted far back, for his spinal column seemed about to snap.Walsh leaned to his right side which a tormenting pain drew at every stride, and Hendricks cursed in gasps through a wry mouth.It had been an hour since Mark Retherton last spoke, and when he attempted it now his voice was as hoarse as a croaking frog.
"Boys, buck up! He's done! D'ye see the black laborin'.D'ye see it? Hey, Lew, Garry, we've got the best hosses among us three.Now's the time for a spurt, and by God, we'll run him down.I'm startin!"He made his word good with an Indian yell and a wave of his hat that sent his buckskin leaping straight into the air, to land with stiff legs, "swallowing its head," but then it straightened out in earnest.That buckskin had a name from Bly Falls to Caswell City speed and courage, and it lived up to the record in the time of need.Close behind it came Lew and Garry ponies scarcely slower than the buckskin, and they closed rapidly on Satan.The plan of Retherton was plain: now that the black was running on its nerve a spurt might bring them within striking distance and if they could check the flight for an instant by opening advance guard fire, they might drive the fugitive into a corner by the river and hold him there until the main body the posse came up.The three of them running alone the lead could do five yards for every four of the slow horses, and the effect showed at once.
Going up a slope the trot of the stallion maintained or even increased his lead, but when they reached the easier ground beyond they drew rapidly upon him.They saw Barry bend low; they saw the stallion increase its pace.
"By God," shouted Retherton in involuntary admonition, "I'd rather have that hoss than the ten thousand.But feed 'em the spurs, boys, and he'll come back to us inside a mile."And Retherton was right.Before that mile was o the black slipped back inch by inch, until at length Retherton called: "Now grab your guns boys and see if you can salt him down with lead.Give your bosses their heads and turn loose!"They pulled their guns to their shoulders and sent a volley at the outlaw.
One bullet clipped a spark from the rocks just behind the stallion's feet;the other two must have gone wide.Once more Barry flinched closer over the neck of Satan and once again the horse answered with a fresh burst of speed, but in a few moments he came back to them.Flesh could not stand that pace after seventy-five miles of running.
They saw the rider straighten and look back; then the sun flashed on his rifle.
"Feed 'em the spur!" shouted Retherton."If we can't hit him shooting ahead, he ain't got a chance to hit us shootin' backwards." For it is notoriously hard to turn in the saddle and accomplish anything with a rifle.One is moving away from the target instead of toward it, and every condition of ordinary shooting is reversed; above all, the moment a man turns his head he is completely out of touch with his horse.Apparently the fugitive knew this and made no attempt to place his shots.He merely jerked his gun to the shoulder and blazed away as soon as it was in place; half a dozen yards in front of Retherton the bullet kicked up the dust.
"I told you," he shouted."He can't do nothin' that way.Close in, boys.
Close in for God's sake!"
He himself was flailing with his quirt, and the buckskin grunted at every strike.Once more the rifle pitched to the outlaw's shoulder, and this time the bullet clicked on a rock not ten feet from Retherton, and again on a straight line for him.
"Damned if that ain't shootin'!" called Garry, and Retherton, alarmed, swung the buckskin out to one side to throw the marksman out of line.He had turned again in the saddle, and as though the episode were at an end, restored his rifle to its case, but when they poured in another volley about him, he swung sharply roundabout again, gun in hand.Once more the rifle went to his shoulder, and this time the bullet knocked a puff of dust into the very nostrils of the buckskin.Retherton reined in with an oath.
"He's been warn in' me, boys," he called."That devil has the range like he was sitting in a rockin' chair shooting at a tin-can.He's warnin' us back to the rest of the gang.And damned if we ain't goin'!"It was quite patent that he was right, for three bullets sent on a line for one horse, and each of them closer, could mean only one thing.They checked their horses, and in a moment the rest of the posse was clattering around them.
"It don't make no difference," called Retherton, "savin' in time.Maybe he'll last to Wilsonville, but he can't stay in three miles when we hang onto him with fresh hosses.The black is runnin' on nothin' but guts right now."
