up the hill like the curling lash of a whip.

"Good," said Vic Gregg. "The damn fools will wind their horses before they
hit the pass."

He put Grey Molly into an easy trot, for the floor of the pass dipped up
and down, littered with sharp-toothed rocks or treacherous, rolling ones,
as bad a place for speed as a stiff upslope. According to his nicest
calculation the posse could not reach the edge of the gulch before he was
at the farther side, out of range of everything except a long chance shot,
so he took note of things as he went and observed a spot of pale silver
skirting through the brush on the eastern ridge of the gorge. There would
be moonlight that night and another chance in favor of Pete Glass. He
remembered then, with quiet content, that jogging in the holster was a
power which with six words might stop those six pursuers.

A long halloo came barking down the pass, now drawling out, now cut away to
silence as the angling cliffs sent on the echo, and Vic loosened the rein.
Grey Molly swung out with a snort of relief to a free-swinging gallop and
they swept down a great, gentle slope where new grass padded the fall of
her hoofs, yet even then he kept the mare checked and held her in touch
with an easily playing wrist. He did not imagine that even the sheriff on
the dusty roan would dream of trying to swallow up Grey Molly in a short
sprint but that assurance nearly cost Vic his life. The roar of hoofs in
the gulch belched out into the comparative silence of the open space beyond
and just as he gave the mare her head a gun coughed and an angry humming
darted past his ear.

Molly lengthened into full speed. He could not tell on account of the
muffling grass whether the pursuit was gaining or losing. He trusted