k Voles to
slow down until he "got" the reckless pursuer, when he found himself
describing a parabola backward through the air. He landed in the
roadway, breaking his left arm.

Voles had an extraordinary lurid oath squeezed out of his vast bulk as
he was forced onto the steering-wheel, the pillar snapping like a
carrot. Winifred and Rachel Craik were flung against the padded back of
the driving seat, but saved from real injury because of their crouching
to avoid Mick the Wolf.

Voles was as quick as a wildcat in an emergency like this. He was on his
feet in a second, with a leg over the door, meaning to shoot Carshaw ere
the latter could do anything to protect himself. But luck, dead against
honesty thus far, suddenly veered against crime. Carshaw's car smashed
into the rear of the heavy mass composed of crushed bullock and
automobile no longer mobile, and dislocated its own engine and feed
pipes. The jerk threw Voles heavily, and nearly, not quite, sprained his
ankle. So, during a precious second or two, he lay almost stunned on the
left side of the road.

Carshaw, given a hint of disaster by the slightest fraction of time, and
already braced low in the body of his car, was able to jump unobserved
from the wreck. As though his brain were illumined by a flash of
lightning, he remembered that the signal handkerchief had fluttered from
the off side of the flying car, so he ran to the right, and grabbed a
breathless bundle of soft femininity out of the ruin.

"Winifred," he gasped.

"Oh, are you safe?" came the strangled sob. So that was her first
thought, his safety! It is a thrilling moment in a man's life when he
learns that his well-being provides an all-sufficing content for some
dear woman. Come weal, come woe, Carshaw knew then that he was clasping
his future wife in his arms. He ran with her through a mob of frightened
cattle, and discovered a gate leading into a field.

"Can you stand if I lift you over?" he said, leaning against the bars.

"Of course! I can run, too," and, in maidenly effort to free herself,
she hugged him closer. They crossed the gate and together breasted a
slight rise through scattered sheaves of corn-shucks. Meanwhile, Voles
and the cattlemen were engaged in a cursing match until Rachel Craik,
recovering her wind, screamed an eldrich command:

"Stop, you fool! They're getting away. He has taken her down the road!"

Voles limped off in pursuit, and Mick the Wolf took up the fierce