mpletely out of touch with his horse.
Apparently the fugitive knew this and made no attempt to place his
shots. He merely jerked his gun to the shoulder and blazed away as soon
as it was in place; half a dozen yards in front of Retherton the bullet
kicked up the dust.

"I told you," he shouted. "He can't do nothin' that way. Close in, boys.
Close in for God's sake!"

He himself was flailing with his quirt, and the buckskin grunted at
every strike. Once more the rifle pitched to the outlaw's shoulder, and
this time the bullet clicked on a rock not ten feet from Retherton, and
again on a straight line for him.

"Damned if that ain't shootin'!" called Garry, and Retherton, alarmed,
swung the buckskin out to one side to throw the marksman out of line.
He had turned again in the saddle, and as though the episode were at
an end, restored his rifle to its case, but when they poured in another
volley about him, he swung sharply roundabout again, gun in hand. Once
more the rifle went to his shoulder, and this time the bullet knocked a
puff of dust into the very nostrils of the buckskin. Retherton reined in
with an oath.

"He's been warn in' me, boys," he called. "That devil has the range like
he was sitting in a rockin' chair shooting at a tin-can. He's warnin' us
back to the rest of the gang. And damned if we ain't goin'!"

It was quite patent that he was right, for three bullets sent on a line
for one horse, and each of them closer, could mean only one thing. They
checked their horses, and in a moment the rest of the posse was
clattering around them.

"It don't make no difference," called Retherton, "savin' in time. Maybe
he'll last to Wilsonville, but he can't stay in three miles when we hang
onto him with fresh hosses. The black is runnin' on nothin' but guts
right now."

Chapter XXXV. The Asper

Ninety miles of ground, at least, had been covered by the black
stallion, since he left Rickett that morning, yet when he galloped
across the plain in full sight of Wilsonville there were plenty of
witnesses who vowed that Satan ran like a colt frolicking over a
pasture. Mark Retherton knew better, and the posse to a man felt the
end was near. They changed saddles in a savage silence and went down the
street out of town with a roar of racing hoofs.

And Barry too, as he watched them whip around the corner of the last
house and streak across the fields, knew that the end of the ride was
near. Strength, wind and nerve