While he spoke, he led, half carried Vic, into a thicket of shrubs with a
small open space at the center. The black and the wolf-dog followed and now
the stranger pulled at the bridle rein. The stallion kneeled like a trained
dog, and lying thus the shrubbery was high enough to hide him. Closer,
sweeping through the wood, Vic heard the crash of the pursuit, yet the
other was maddeningly slow of speech.

"You stay here, partner, and sit over there. I'm borrowin' your gun"--a
swift hand appropriated it from Vic's holster and his own fingers were too
paralyzed to resist--"and don't you try to ride my hoss unless you want
them teeth in your throat. Lie quiet and tie up your hurt. Bart, watch
him!"

And there sat Gregg where he had slipped down in his daze of weakness with
the great dog crouched at his feet and snarling ominously every time he
raised his hand. The voices came closer; the crashing burst on his very
ears, and now, through the interstices of the shrubbery he saw the stranger
swing into the saddle on Grey Molly and urge her to a gallop. He could
follow them for only an instant with his eyes, but it seemed to Vic that
Molly cantered under her new rider with strange ease and lightness. It was
partly the rest, no doubt, and partly the smaller burden.

A deep beat of racing hoofs, and then the dusty roan shot out of the trees
close by with the sheriff leaning forward, jockeying his horse. It seemed
that no living thing could escape from that relentless rider. Then right
behind Vic a horse snorted and grunted--as it leaped a fallen log,
perhaps--and he watched in alarm to see if the stallion would answer that
sound with start or whinney. The black lay perfectly still, and instead of
lifting up to answer or to look, the head lowered with ears flat back until
the long, outstretched neck gave the animal a snaky appearance. The dog,