Indian band, which had almost won the prize. The ponies had been
staked on the issue of that encounter--and the highwaymen had
retained, by right of craft and force, what the government would
not permit its wards to barter or sell.

The race was long but always unequal. The ruffians who had dashed
from the scene of the cabin almost in an even line, scattered and
straggled unevenly; now only two were able to send bullets whistling
about Willock's head; now only one found it possible to cover the
distance. At last even he fell out of range. The Indian pony,
apparently tireless, shot on like an arrow driven into the teeth of
the wind, sending up behind a cloud of dust that stretched backward
toward the baffled pursuers, a long wavering ribbon like a clew left
to guide the band into the mysterious depths of the Great American
Desert.

When the last of the pursuers found further effort useless, he
checked his horse. Willock now sat erect on the broncho's bare
back, lightly clasping the halter. Looking behind, he saw seven
horsemen in varying degrees of remoteness, motionless, doubtless
fixing their wolfish eyes on his fleeing form. As long as he could
distinguish these specks against the sky, they remained stationary.
To his excited imagination they represented a living wall drawn up
between him and the abode of men. Should he ever venture back to
that world, he fancied those seven avengers would be waiting to
receive him with taunts and drawn weapons.

And his conscience told him that the taunts would be merited, for
he had turned traitor, he had failed in the only virtue on which his
fellow criminals prided themselves. Yes, he was a traitor; and by