great neck; the yells of rage were in his ears, but he
heard the soft breathing of the little one fast asleep in the midst of
her dangers.

He had selected for himself, and for Gledware, ponies that had often
been run against each other, and which no others of all Red Kimball's
corral could surpass in speed. Gledware and the child were on the pony
that Kimball had once staked against the swiftest animal the Indians
could produce--and Willock rode the pride of the Indian band, which had
almost won the prize. The ponies had been staked on the issue of that
encounter--and the highwaymen had retained, by right of craft and
force, what the government would not permit its wards to barter or sell.

The race was long but always unequal. The ruffians who had dashed from
the scene of the cabin almost in an even line, scattered and straggled
unevenly; now only two were able to send bullets whistling about
Willock's head; now only one found it possible to cover the distance.
At last even he fell out of range. The Indian pony, apparently
tireless, shot on like an arrow driven into the teeth of the wind,
sending up behind a cloud of dust that stretched backward toward the
baffled pursuers, a long wavering ribbon like a clew left to guide the
band into the mysterious depths of the Great American Desert.

When the last of the pursuers found further effort useless, he checked
his horse. Willock now sat erect on the broncho's bare back, lightly
clasping the halter. Looking behind, he saw seven horsemen in varying
degrees of remoteness, motionless, doubtless fixing their wolfish eyes
on his fleeing form. As long as he could distinguish these specks
against the sky, they remained stationary. To his excited imagination
they represented a living wall drawn up between him and the abode of
men. Should he ever venture back to that world, he fancied those seven
avengers would be waiting to receive him with taunts and drawn weapons.

And his conscience told him that the taunts would be merited, for he
had turned traitor, he had failed in the only virtue on which his
fellow criminals prided themselves. Yes, he was a traitor; and by the
only justice he acknowledged, he deserved to die. But the child who
had lain so trustingly upon his wild bosom, who had clung to him as to
a father--she was safe! An unwonted smile crept under the bristling
beard of the fugitive, as he urged the pony forward in unrelaxing
speed. Should he seek refuge