e somewhat slanting;
but Vic Gregg was not among the crowd, and for the rest, Barry had no
wish to come within range of their harm. The revolver at his side, the
rifle in the case, were for the seventh man who must die for Grey Molly.
These who followed him mattered nothing--except that he must not come
within their reach. He studied them calmly as they swept nearer, fifteen
chosen men as he could tell by their riding, on fifteen choice horses
as he could tell by their gait. If they pushed him into a corner--well,
five men were odds indeed, yet he would not have given them a thought;
ten men made it a grim affair, but still he might have taken a chance;
however, fifteen men made a battle suicide--he simply must not let
them corner him. Particularly fifteen such men as these, for in the
mountain-desert where all men are raised gun in hand, these were the
quickest and the surest marksmen. Each one of them had struck that
elusive white ball in motion, and each had done it with a revolver. What
could they do with a rifle?

That thought might have sent him rushing Satan down the farther slope,
but instead, he raised his head a little more and began to whistle
softly to himself. Satan locked an ear back to listen; Black Bart rose
with a muffled growl. The posse rode in clear view now, and at their
head was a tall, lean man with the sun glinting now and again on his
yellow moustaches. He threw out his arm and the posse scattered towards
the left. Obviously he was the accepted leader, and indeed few men in
the mountain-desert would not willingly have followed Mark Retherton.
Another gesture from Retherton, and at once a dozen guns gleaned, and a
dozen bullets whizzed perilously close to Barry, then the reports came
barking up to him; he was just a little out of range.

Still he lingered for a moment before he turned Satan reluctantly, it
seemed, and started him down the far slope, straightaway for the Morgan
Hills as old Billy had prophesied. It would be no exercise canter even
for Satan, for the horses which followed were rare of their kind, and
the western horse at the worst has manifold fine points. His ancestor is
the Barb or the Arab which the Spaniards brought with them to Mexico and
the descendants of that finest of equine bloods made up the wild herds
which soon roamed the mountain-desert to the north. Long famines of
winter, hot deserts in summer, changed their appearance. Their heads
grew lumpier, their necks more sc