were gone from Satan; his hoofs pounded
the ground with the stamp of a plowhorse; his breath came in wheezes
with a rattle toward the end; the tail no longer fluttered out straight
behind. Yet when the master leaned and called he found something in his
great heart with which to answer. A ghost of his old buoyancy came in
his stride, the drooping head rose, one ear quivered up, and he ran
against the challenge of those fresh ponies from Wilsonville. There were
men who doubted it when the tale was told, but Mark Retherton swore to
the truth of it.

Even then that desperate effort was failing. Not all the generous will
in the heart of the stallion could give his legs the speed they needed;
and he fell back by inches, by feet, by yards, toward the posse. They
disdained their guns now, and kept them in the cases; for the game was
theirs.

And then they noted an odd activity in the fugitive, who had slipped to
one side and was fumbling at his cinches. They could not understand for
a time, but presently the saddle came loose, the cinches flipped out,
and the whole apparatus crashed to the ground. Nor was this all. The
rider leaned forward and his hands worked on the head of his mount until
the hackamore also came free and was tossed aside. To that thing fifteen
good men and true swore the next day with strange oaths, and told how a
man rode for his life on a horse that wore neither saddle nor bridle but
ran obediently to voice and hand.

Every ounce counted, and there were other ounces to be spared. He was
leaning again, to this side and then to that, and presently the posse
rushed past the discarded riding-boots.

There lay the rifle in its case on the saddle far behind. And with the
rifle remained all the fugitive's chances of fighting at long range.
Now, following, came the heavy cartridge belt and the revolver with it.
The very sombrero was torn from his head and thrown away.

His horse was failing visibly; not even this lightening could keep it
away from the posse long; and yet the man threw away his sole chance of
safety. And the fifteen pursuers cursed solemnly as they saw the truth.
He would run his horse to death and then die with it empty handed rather
than let either of them fall a captive.

Unburdened by saddle or gun or trapping, the stallion gave himself in
the last effort. There ahead lay safety, if they could shake off this
last relay of the posse, and for a time he pulled away until Retherton
grew anxio