going
at a pace that would have won most quarter-mile sprints. Just after
the fourth shot he swept in among the scattered bunch of cattle,
running at his highest speed. Still Ashton swung his sharp-roweled
spurs. He knew that the range of a high-power rifle is well over a
mile.

To his vast surprise, the shooting ceased the moment he raced into
line with the first steer. The short respite gave him time to recover
his wits.

As the pony sprinted clear of the last steer in the bunch, a fifth
bullet ranged close down over Ashton's head. He pulled hard on the
right rein and leaned the same way. The sixth shot burned the skin on
the pony's hip as he swerved suddenly towards the edge of the creek
channel. He made a wild leap out over the edge of the cut bank and
came plunging down on a gravel bar. At once he started to race along
the dry stream bed. But instead of spurring, Ashton now tugged at the
bridle.

The pony swung to the left and came to a halt close in under the bank.
Ashton cautiously straightened from his crouch. When erect he was just
high enough to see over the edge of the bank. Looking back and up the
ridge, he saw the figure of a man clearly outlined against the sky.
His lips closed in resolute lines; his dark eyes flashed. Jerking out
his rifle, he set the sight for fifteen hundred yards, and began
firing at the would-be murderer as coolly and steadily as a marksman.

Before he had pulled the trigger the third time the man leaped
sideways and knelt to return his fire. At once Ashton gripped his
rifle still more firmly and drew back the automatic lever. The
crackling discharge was like the fire of a miniature Maxim gun. Puffs
of dust spouted up all around the man on the ridge crest. He sprang to
his feet and ran back out of sight, jumping from side to side like an
Indian.

"Ho!" shouted Ashton. "He's running! I made him run!"

He sat up very erect in his saddle, staring defiantly at the place
where the murderer had disappeared.

"The coward! I made him run!" he exulted.

He shifted his grip on his rifle, and the heat of the barrel reminded
him that he had emptied the magazine. He reloaded the weapon to its
fullest capacity, and stood up in his stirrups to stare at the ridge
crest. The murderer did not reappear. Ashton's exultance gave place to
disappointment. He was more than ready to continue the duel.

He rode down the creek, searching for a place to ascend the cut bank.
But by the time he came t