him a blow on his right shoulder sent Vic lurching forward against the
pommel. Afterwards the voice of the rifle rang around him and a sharp pain
twitched up and down his side, then ran tingling to his fingertips.

It was the stunning blow which saved him, for the sheriff had the range and
his third bullet would have clipped Vic between the shoulders, but Glass
had seen his quarry pitch forward in the saddle and he would not waste
ammunition. The thrift of his New England ancestry spoke in Pete now and
then and he could only grit his teeth when he saw Vic, disappearing on the
other side of the crest, straighten in the saddle; the next instant the top
of the hill shielded the fugitive.

Well and nobly, then, Grey Molly repaid all the praise, all the tenderness
and care which Vic had lavished upon her in the past years, for with her
legs shaking from the struggle of that last climb, with a rider who wobbled
crazily in his seat, with reins hanging loose on her neck, with not even a
voice to guide or to encourage her, she swept straight across the falling
ground, gaining strength and courage at every stride. By the time Vic had
regained his self-control and rallied a little from that first terrible
falling of the heart, the dusty roan was over the crest and streaking after
the game. Grey Molly gained steadily, yet even when he gathered the reins
in his left hand Vic knew that the fight was done, in effect. How could he
double or dodge when his own blood spotted the trail he kept, and how long
could he keep the saddle with the agony which tore like saw teeth at his
shoulder?

Grey Molly plunged straight into the shadow of pine trees, and the cool
gloom fell like a blessing upon Vic in his torment; it was heaven to be
sheltered even for a few moments from the eyes of the posse. At the
opposite edge of the wood he drew rein with a groan. Some devil had