the only justice he acknowledged, he deserved to die. But the child
who had lain so trustingly upon his wild bosom, who had clung to him
as to a father--she was safe! An unwonted smile crept under the
bristling beard of the fugitive, as he urged the pony forward in
unrelaxing speed. Should he seek refuge among civilized communities,
his crimes would hang over his head--if not discovered, the fear of
discovery would be his, day and night. To venture into his old haunts
in No-Man's Land would be to expose his back to the assassin's knife,
or his breast to ambushed murderers. He dared not seek asylum among
the Indians, for while bands of white men were safe enough in the
Territory, single white men were at the mercy of the moment's caprice--
and certainly, if found astride that Indian pony which the agent had
ordered restored to its owner, his life would not be worth a thought.

These were desperate reflections, and the future seemed framed in
solitude, yet Brick Willock rode on with that odd smile about the
grim lips. The smile was unlike him--but, the whole affair was such
an experience as had never entered his most daring fancy. Never
before in his life had he held a child in his arms, still less had
he felt the sweet embrace of peaceful slumber. To another man it
might have meant nothing; but to this great rough fellow, the very
sight of whom had often struck terror to the heart, that experience
seemed worth all the privations he foresaw.

The sun had risen when the pony, after a few tottering steps,
suddenly sank to earth. Willock unfastened the halter from its
neck, tied it with the lariat about his waist, and without pause,
set out afoot. If the pony died from the terrible strain of that
unremitting flight, doubtless the roving Indians of the plains would
find it and try to follow his trail; if it survived he would be