the posse set to work silently changing their
saddles to the new relay, and Mark Retherton tossed his answer over his
shoulder to Johnny Gasney while he drew his cinch brutally tight.

"They's a pile of hoss-flesh in these parts, but they ain't more'n one
Barry. You gents can say good-bye to your hosses unless we nail him
before they're run down."

Johnny Gasney rubbed his red, fat forehead, perplexed.

"It's all right," he decided, "because it ain't possible the black hoss
can outlast these. But--he sure seemed full of runnin! One thing more,
Mark. You don't need to fear pressin' Barry, because he won't shoot.
He had his gun out, but I guess he don't want to run up his score any
higher'n it is. He put it back without firin' a shot. Go on, boys, and
go like hell. Billy has lined up a new relay for you at Wago."

They made no pause to start in a group, but each sent home the spurs
as soon as he was in the saddle. They had ridden for the blood of Pete
Glass before, but now at least seven of them rode for the sake of the
horses they had ruined, and to a cow-puncher a favorite mount is as dear
as a friend.

They expected to find the black out of sight, but it was a welcome
surprise to see him not half a mile away wading across St. Vincent
Creek; for Barry quite accurately guessed that there would be a pause in
the pursuit after that hair-breadth escape, and at the creek he stopped
to let Satan get his wind. He would not trust the stallion to drink, but
gave him a bare mouthful from his hat and loosened the cinches for an
instant.

Not that this was absolutely necessary, for Satan was neither blown nor
leg-weary. He stood dripping with sweat, indeed, but poised lightly, his
head high, his ears pricked, his nostrils distended to transparency as
he drew in great breaths. Even that interval Barry used, for he set to
work vigorously massaging the muscles of shoulders and hips and whipping
off the sweat from neck and flank. It was several moments, and
already Satan's breath came easily, when Black Bart shot down from
his watch-post and warned them on with a snarl, but still, before he
tightened the cinches again and climbed to the saddle Barry took the
fine head of the stallion between his hands.

"Between you and me, Satan," he murmured, "our day's work is jest
beginnin'. Are you feelin' fit?"

Satan nuzzled the shoulder of the master and snorted his answer; Black
Bart had given the warning, and the stallion was eager