e
would do it himself under like conditions; the unnatural would be the
other course.

These things he thought as he rode into the setting sun in pursuit of
the fugitive designated by the sheriff. Whetstone was fresh and eager
after his long rest, in spite of the twelve or fifteen miles which he
had covered already between the two ranches. Lambert held him in,
doubtful whether he would be able to overtake the fleeing rider before
dark with the advantage of distance and a fresh horse that he or she
had.

If Kerr rode ahead of him, then he must be overtaken before night gave
him sanctuary; if Grace, it was only necessary to come close enough to
her to make sure, then let her go her way untroubled. He held the
distance pretty well between them till sundown, when he felt the time
had come to close in and settle the doubt. Whetstone was still mainly in
reserve, tireless, deep-winded creature that he was.

Lambert leaned over his neck, caressed him, spoke into the ear that
tipped watchfully back. They were in fairly smooth country, stretches of
thin grasslands and broken barrens, but beyond them, a few miles, the
hills rose, treeless and dun, offering refuge for the one who fled.
Pursuit there would be difficult by day, impossible by night.

Whetstone quickened at his master's encouragement, pushing the race hard
for the one who led, cutting down the distance so rapidly that it seemed
the other must be purposely delaying. Half an hour more of daylight and
it would be over.

The rider in the lead had driven his or her horse too hard in the
beginning, leaving no recovery of wind. Lambert remarked its weariness
as it took the next hill, laboring on in short, stiff jumps. At the top
the rider held in, as if to let the animal blow. It stood with nose
close to the ground, weariness in every line.

The sky was bright beyond horse and rider, cut sharply by the line of
the hill. Against it the picture stood, black as a shadow, but with an
unmistakable pose in the rider that made Lambert's heart jump and grow
glad.

It was Grace; chance had been kind to him again, leading him in the way
his heart would have gone if it had been given the choice. She looked
back, turning with a hand on the cantle of her saddle. He waved his
hand, to assure her, but she did not seem to read the friendly signal,
for she rode on again, disappearing over the hill before he reached the
crest.

He plunged down after her, not sparing his horse where