Dawn found him over the first crest; at noon he was struggling up the slope
of the second range, whose rise was not half so sharp as the upward plunge
out of the Asper, but in spite of that easier ground Grey Molly could not
gain. She went with shorter steps, now, and her head hung lower and lower,
yet when a down stretch opened before her she went at it with a gallop as
light, almost, as her race out of Murphy's Pass. Not once had she offered
to stop; not once had she winced from the labor of some sharp up-pitch; but
still six horsemen hung behind her, and at their head rode a little dusty
man on a little dusty roan. It was the lack of training as well as the
rough going which held Molly back.

Beyond that second range, however, the down slope stretched smoothly,
evenly, for mile on mile and mile on mile; perfect going for Grey Molly
over easy hills with patches of forest here and there where he might
double, or where he might stop with the hunt sweeping past. All this the
sheriff must have known perfectly well, for he no longer kept back with his
pack of five, but skirted on ahead, hunting alone. Again and again Vic
heard the little shrill whistle with which Pete Glass encouraged the roan.
Vic used the spurs twice, and then he desisted from the useless brutality
for Molly was doing her best and no power on earth could make her do more.
After all, her best would be good enough, for now Vic looked up and his
heart leaped into his throat; there was only one more rise above him, and
beyond lay the easy ground and a running chance for Molly's slender legs.
Even as he raised his head something whined evilly over him, followed by a
sound like two heavy hammers swung together, face to face, and shattered by
the stroke. A rifle!

He looked back, saw the roan standing broadside towards him, watched the
sun waver and then flash in a straight steady line along the barrel of the
sheriff's gun. The line of light jerked up, and before the sound reached