t on the back trail,
straight toward the posse. For a mile or more that speed did not
slacken, and at the end of that distance he began to edge to the right.

The men behind him knew well enough what the plan of the fugitive was,
and they angled farther toward the north; there in the distance came the
posse, the cloud of dust breaking up now into the dark figures of the
fifteen, and if the men from St. Vincent could hold the pace a little
longer they would drive Barry between two fires. They flattened
themselves along their horses' necks at infinite risk to their necks
in case of a stumble, and every spur in the crowd was dripping red;
horseflesh could do no more, and still the black drew ahead inches and
inches with every stride.

If they could not turn him with their speed another way remained, and by
swift agreement the four best horses were sent ahead at full speed while
the other riders caught their reins over the pommels and jerked out
their rifles; a quartet of bullets went screaming after the black horse.

Indeed, there was little enough chance that a placed shot would go home,
but their magazines were full, and a chance hit would do the work and
kill both man and horse at that rate of speed. Dan Barry knew it, and
when the bullets sang he whirled in the saddle and swept out his rifle
from its case in the same movement. That yellow devil of anger flared
in his eyes as he pitched the butt to his shoulder and straight into the
circle of the sight rode Johnny Gasney of St. Vincent. Another volley
whistled about him and his finger trembled on the trigger. No chance
work with Barry, for he knew the gait of Satan as a practized naval
gunner knows the swing of his ship in a smooth sea, and that circle of
doom wavered over Johnny Gasney for a dozen strides before Dan turned
with a faint moan and jammed the rifle back in its case. Once again he
was balancing in his stirrups, leaning close to cut the wind with his
shoulders.

"I can't do it, Satan. I got nothin' agin them. They think they're
playin' square. I can't do it. Stretch out, old boy. Stretch out!" It
seemed impossible that the stallion could increase his exertions, but
with that low voice at his ear he did literally stretch along the ground
and jerked himself away from the pursuit like a tall ship when a new
sail spreads in a gale.

The men from St. Vincent saw that the game was lost. Every one of the
eight had his rifle at the shoulder and the bullets hiss