row up your hands," commanded the second apparition,
with an oath.

Dick felt the mare tremble, quiver, and apparently sink under him. He
knew what it meant, and was prepared.

"Stand aside, Jack Simpson. I know you, you d----d thief! Let me pass,
or--"

He did not finish the sentence. Jovita rose straight in the air with a
terrific bound, throwing the figure from her bit with a single shake of
her vicious head, and charged with deadly malevolence down on the
impediment before her. An oath, a pistol-shot, horse and highwayman
rolled over in the road, and the next moment Jovita was a hundred yards
away. But the good right arm of her rider, shattered by a bullet,
dropped helplessly at his side.

Without slacking his speed he lifted the reins to his left hand. But a
few moments later he was obliged to halt and tighten the saddle-girths
that had slipped in the onset. This in his crippled condition took some
time. He had no fear of pursuit, but, looking up, he saw that the
eastern stars were already paling, and that the distant peaks had lost
their ghostly whiteness, and now stood out blackly against a lighter
sky. Day was upon him. Then completely absorbed in a single idea, he
forgot the pain of his wound, and, mounting again, dashed on towards
Rattlesnake Creek. But now Jovita's breath came broken by gasps, Dick
reeled in his saddle, and brighter and brighter grew the sky.

Ride, Richard; run, Jovita; linger, O day!

For the last few rods there was a roaring in his ears. Was it exhaustion
from a loss of blood, or what? He was dazed and giddy as he swept down
the hill, and did not recognize his surroundings. Had he taken the wrong
road, or was this Rattlesnake Creek?

It was. But the brawling creek he had swam a few hours before had risen,
more than doubled its volume, and now rolled a swift and resistless
river between him and Rattlesnake Hill. For the first time that night
Richard's heart sank within him. The river, the mountain, the quickening
east, swam before his eyes. He shut them to recover his self-control. In
that brief interval, by some fantastic mental process, the little room
at Simpson's Bar and the figures of the sleeping father and son rose
upon him. He opened his eyes wildly, cast off his coat, pistol, boots,
and saddle, bound his precious pack tightly to his shoulders, grasped
the bare flanks of Jovita with his bared knees, and with a shout dashed
into the yellow water. A cry arose from the opposite