third time, he
allowed her to come very close, and just when she felt that success was
very near, he snorted with pretended fright, wheeled, and slashed out
with both hoofs at her and galloped off a full quarter of a mile. She
could see him standing and looking at her, his ears erect, before the
darkness blotted him from view altogether.

She tried again, groping her way painfully over rocks, slipping,
stumbling, holding her breath from fear of snakes--but she could not find
the pony. And then, white, shaking, clammy from her dread of the
darkness, the awesome silence, and the possibility of Chavis and Kester
finding her here, she groped blindly until she found a big rock rising
high above its fellows, and after a struggle during which she tore the
skin from her hands and knees, she climbed to its top and crouched on it,
shuddering and crying. And she thought of Randerson; of his seriousness
and his earnestness when he had said:

"I reckon you don't know hate or fear or desperation.... Out here things
run loose, an' if you stay here long enough, some day you'll meet them
an' recognize them for your own--an' you'll wonder how you ever got along
without them."

Well, she hated now; she hated everything--the country included--with a
bitterness that, she felt, would never die. And she had felt fear, too,
and desperation. She felt them now, and more, she felt a deep humility,
and she felt a genuine respect for Randerson--a respect which more than
counterbalanced her former repugnance toward him for the killing of
Pickett. For she knew that a while ago, if she had had a pistol with her,
she would have killed Chavis and Kester without hesitation.

CHAPTER XIII

THE FIGHT

At about the time that Chavis and Kester had discovered Ruth's pony and
had clambered up the slope in search of the girl, the two figures on the
timber-fringed level near the break in the canyon wall were making
grotesque shadows as they danced about in the dying sunlight.

Masten's science had served him well. He had been able, so far, to evade
many of Randerson's heavy blows, but some of them had landed. They had
hurt, too, and had taken some of the vigor out of their target, though
Masten was still elusive as he circled, with feet that dragged a little,
feinting and probing for openings through which he might drive his fists.

A great many of his blows had reached their mark als