t into
noisy wrath, scared them as if an earthquake had gripped the building.
They went out sidling, and left the rooms in quiet. Then Billy took up
the phone.

"Pete Glass is dead," he was saying a moment later to the owner of the
general merchandise store at St. Vincent. "Barry came in this morning
and shot him. The boys have run him east to the Morgan Hills. Johnny,
listen hard and shut up. You got half an hour to turn out every man in
your town. Ride south till you get in the hills on a bee-line east of
where Tucker Creek runs into the old Asper. D'ye hear? Then keep your
eyes peeled to the east, and watch for a man on a black hoss ridin'
hard, because Barry is sure as hell goin' to double back out of the
Morgan Hills and come west like a scairt coyote. The posse will be
behind him, but they most like be a hell of a ways to the bad. Johnny,
everything hangs on your turnin' Barry back. And have fifteen fresh
hosses, the best St. Vincent has, so that the boys in the posse can
climb on 'em and ride hell-bent for Wago. Johnny, if we get him started
north he's dead--and if you turn him like I say I'll see that you come
in on the reward. D'ye hear?"

But there was only an inarticulate whoop from the other end of the wire.

Billy hung up. A little later he was talking to Wago.

Chapter XXX. The Morgan Hills

Once out of Rickett, Barry pulled the stallion back to an easy canter.
He had camped during the latter part of the night near the town and
ridden in in the morning, so that Satan was full of running. He rebelled
now against this easy pace, and tossed his head with impatience. No curb
restrained him, not even a bit; the light hackamore could not have held
him for an instant, but the voice of the rider kept him in hand. Now,
out of Rickett's one street, came the thing for which Barry had waited,
and delayed his course--a scudding dust cloud. On the top of a rise of
ground he brought Satan to a halt and looked back, though Black Bart ran
in a circle around him, and whined anxiously. Bart knew that they should
be running; there was no good in that ragged dust-cloud. Finally he sat
down on his haunches and looked his master in the face, quivering with
eagerness. The posse came closer, at the rate of a racing horse, and
near at hand the tufts of dust which tossed up above and behind the
riders dissolved, and Whistling Dan made them out clearly, and more
clearly.

For one form he looked above all, a big man who rod