The pony loped toward the Notch, quite as eager as his rider to attend a
performance that promised action. Within a half-mile of the Notch, Lorry
pulled the pony to a walk. Just beyond the car he had seen the head and
ears of a horse. The rider was afoot, talking to the folks in the car.
This didn't look quite right.

He worked his pony through the shoulder-high brush until within a few
yards of the other man, who was evidently unwelcome. One of the two
women stood in front of the other as though to shield her.

Lorry took down his rope just as the younger of the two women saw his
head above the brush. The strange horseman, noting her expression,
turned quickly. Lorry's pony jumped at the thrust of the spurs. The rope
circled like a swallow and settled lightly on the man's shoulders. The
pony wheeled. The blunt report of a gun punctured the silence, followed
by the long-drawn ripping of brush and the snorting of the pony.

The man was dragging and clutching at the brush. He had dropped his gun.
Lorry dug the spurs into Gray Leg. The rope came taut with a jerk. The
man rolled over, his hands snatching at the noose about his neck. Lorry
dismounted and ran to him. He eased the loop, and swiftly slipped it
over the man's feet.

Gray Leg, who knew how to keep a rope taut better than anything else,
slowly circled the fallen man. Lorry picked up the gun and strode over
to the car. One of the women was crouching on the running-board. In
front of her, pale, straight, stiffly indignant, stood a young woman
whose eyes challenged Lorry's approach.