prompted Gus Reeve and some devil had poured Reeve's horse full of
strength, for yonder down the valley, not a hundred yards away, galloped a
rider on a black horse; yet Vic could have sworn that when he looked back
from the crest he had seen Gus riding the very last in the posse. An
instant later the illusion vanished, for the black horse of Gus was never
an animal such as this, never had this marvelous, long gait. Its feet
flicked the earth and shot it along with a reaching stride so easy, so
flowing that only the fluttered mane and the tail stretching straight
behind gave token of the speed. For the rest, it carried its head high,
with pricking ears, the sure sign of a horse running well within his
strength, yet Grey Molly, fresh and keen for racing, could hardly have
kept pace with the black as it slid over the hills. God in heaven, if such
a horse were his a thousand sheriffs on a thousand dusty roans could never
take him; five minutes would sweep him out of sight and reach.

Before the horseman ran a tall dog, wolfish in head and wolfish in the gait
which carried it like a cloud shadow over the ground, but it was over-large
for any wolf Vic had ever seen. It turned its head now, and leaped aside at
sight of the stranger, but the rider veered from his course and swept down
on Vic. He came to a halt close up without either a draw at the reins or a
spoken word, probably controlling his mount with pressure of the knees, and
Gregg found himself facing a delicately handsome fellow. He was neither
cowpuncher nor miner, Vic knew at a glance, for that face had never been
haggard with labor. A tenderfoot, probably, in spite of his dress, and Vic
felt that if his right arm were sound he could take that horse at the point
of his gun and leave the rider thanking God that his life had been spared;
but his left hand was useless on the butt of a revolver, and three minutes
away came the posse, racing. There was only time for one desperate appeal.

"Stranger," he burst out, "I'm follered. I got to have your hoss. Take this