possibly seven hundred yards. The hidden marksman was a good shot to
drive his bullets as close as he had at that distance.

Straight out from the place of gray smoke four men and four horses
were making their way across the slide. They were halfway across. But
they had stopped. The down rush of Molly's horse had apparently given
them pause. Now two men started ahead, one stood irresolute and
one started to retrace his steps. It is a true saying that he who
hesitates is lost. Straight over the irresolute man and his horse
rolled the dust cloud whose centre was Molly's horse. When the dust
cloud passed on it was much larger, and both the man and his horse had
disappeared.

The man who had started to retreat continued to retreat, and more
rapidly. The two who had held on did not cease to advance, but they
proceeded very slowly.

"If that feller with the Winchester don't get us we're all right for a
spell," Racey muttered.

He knew that on their side of the slide for a distance of several
hundred yards up and down the side of the mountain and for several
miles athwart it the underbrush was impenetrable for horses and wicked
travelling for men. There had been a forest fire four years before,
and everyone knows what happens after that.

In but one place, where a ridge of rock reared through the soil, was
it possible to cross the stretch of burned-over ground. Naturally
Racey had picked this one spot. Whether the posse had not known of
this rock ridge, or whether they had simply miscalculated its position
it is impossible to say.

"Those two will shore be out of luck when they get in among the
stubs," he thought to himself, as he waited for his strength to come
back.

But youth recovers quickly and Racey was young. It may be that
the lead that was being sent at him and Molly Dale was a potent
revivifier.

Certainly within three or four minutes after he had cut the bridle
Racey began to work his way up the rope to where his patient and
well-trained horse stood braced and steady as the proverbial boulder.

Monotonously the man behind the Winchester whipped bullet after bullet
into the rocky face of the slide in the immediate vicinity of Racey
Dawson and the senseless burden in the crook of his left arm.
Nevertheless, Racey took the time to work to the right and recover the
hat that a bullet had flicked from his head.

Then he resumed his slow journey upward.

Ages passed before he felt the good firm ground under