Duane heard the clink of spurs on steel stirrup and the thud of
boots on the ground. There followed a short silence which was
broken by a sharply breathed exclamation.

Duane waited for no more. They had found his trail. He spurred
his horse straight into the brush. At the second crashing bound
there came yells from the road, and then shots. Duane heard the
hiss of a bullet close by his ear, and as it struck a branch it
made a peculiar singing sound. These shots and the proximity of
that lead missile roused in Duane a quick, hot resentment which
mounted into a passion almost ungovernable. He must escape, yet
it seemed that he did not care whether he did or not. Something
grim kept urging him to halt and return the fire of these men.
After running a couple of hundred yards he raised himself from
over the pommel, where he had bent to avoid the stinging
branches, and tried to guide his horse. In the dark shadows
under mesquites and cottonwoods he was hard put to it to find
open passage; however, he succeeded so well and made such
little noise that gradually he drew away from his pursuers. The
sound of their horses crashing through the thickets died away.
Duane reined in and listened. He had distanced them. Probably
they would go into camp till daylight, then follow his tracks.
He started on again, walking his horse, and peered sharply at
the ground, so that he might take advantage of the first trail
he crossed. It seemed a long while until he came upon one. He
followed it until a late hour, when, striking the willow brakes
again and hence the neighborhood of the river, he picketed his
horse and lay down to rest. But he did not sleep. His mind
bitterly revolved the fate that had come upon him. He made