"Damme for leaving my gun in camp! I'll stay with Andy. Go on--and if
yuh don't get him, I'll--" he turned back, cursing hysterically, and
knelt beside the long figure in the grass. There was a tumult of sound
as the three raced off in pursuit, so close that the flight of the
fugitive was still distinct in the fog.

While they raced they cursed the fog that shielded from their
vengeance their quarry, and made such riding as theirs a blind gamble
with the chances all in favor of broken bones; their only comfort the
knowledge that Blink could see no better than could they. They did not
talk, just at first. They did not even wonder if Andy was dead. Every
nerve, every muscle and every thought was concentrated upon the
pursuit of Blink. It was the instant rising to meet an occasion
undreamed of in advance, to do the only thing possible without loss of
a second in parley. Truly, it were ill for Blink to fall into the
hands of those three in that mood.

They rode with quirt and spur, guided only by the muffled
_pluckety-pluck, pluckety-pluck_ of Blink's horse fleeing always just
before. Whenever the hoof-beats seemed a bit closer, Happy Jack would
lift his long-barreled .45 and send a shot at random toward the sound.
Or Weary or Slim would take a chance with their shorter guns. But
never once did they pull rein for steep or gulley, and never once did
the hoof-beats fail to come back to them from out the fog.

The chase had led afar and the pace was telling on their mounts, which
breathed asthmatically. Slim, best he could do, was falling behind.
Weary's horse stumbled and went to his knees, so that Happy Jack
forged ahead just when the wind, puffing up from the open, blew aside
the gray fog-wall. It was not a minute, nor half that; but it was long