on ridges from three
sides.

They came at a dead run. Before he could reach his saddle one of the
company had pulled up between him and the weapons. Captain Love was
leaning from his horse questioning Three-Fingered Jack. Murieta took
another step toward his weapons; the ranger stopped him with a
gesture; he halted, glanced at Captain Love, and scowled.

"If you have any questions to ask," he cried, "I am leader of this
party. Talk to me."

"I'll talk to whom I please," Love answered, and just then William
Byrnes came riding into sight.

Murieta took one look at the man whom he had known in the days when he
walked unfeared among his fellows and let his eyes go around the
circle of riders; he saw Three-Fingered Jack watching him narrowly.
His hand stole up along the mare's glossy neck. Her ears moved back
and forth as she stood there biding some word from him.

Then, "Vamos, amigos!" he shouted, and sprang on the mare's back. He
leaned far forward as she leaped down the bed of the ravine.

Three-Fingered Jack took advantage of the moment of confusion that
followed to mount his own horse, and half the rangers followed him
across the grass ridge firing as they went. He fought a running battle
with them for five miles before they shot him down.

Murieta lay along the mare's back like an Indian. The hoofs of the
pursuing company thundered behind him in the ravine-bed; their bullets
spattered on the rocks about him. Before him the land broke in a
twenty-foot precipice. He called into the mare's ear and she headed
bravely for the cliff, leaped out into space, and turned a complete
somersault at the bottom. He rolled among the rocks beside her, lay
for a moment stunned, then rose and found her waiting for him where
she had gained her feet. He sprang to her back again and urged her
on.

Several of the rangers were pressing their horses along the hillside
to gain the bed of the ravine by that roundabout route; one who had
ridden full-tilt over the cliff lay stunned beside his injured animal;
and three or four others had dismounted. These lined their sights on
the fleeing mare, and now her legs went from under her; she crashed
down with the blood gushing from her nostrils.

The rangers rested their rifles for more careful aim as the rider
started to flee on foot. The volley raised rattling echoes in the
hills. He took four or five strides and then, halting, faced about. He
raised one hand.

"No more," he called. "You