all his wealth of hard-earned fistic education roused, was waiting;
waiting with the infinite patience of the wounded cougar.

Crimmins looked up and down the road again. Then he came in, a
black-jack clenched until the veins in his hand ridged out purple and
taut as did those in his neck. A muscle was beating in his wooden cheek.
He struck savagely. Garrison side-stepped, and his fist clacked under
Crimmins' chin. Neither spoke. Again Crimmins came in.

A great splatter of hoof-beats came from down the pike, sounding like
the vomitings of a Gatling gun. A horse streaked its way toward them.
Crimmins darted into the underbrush bordering the pike. The horse came
fast. It flashed past Garrison. Its rider was swaying in the saddle;
swaying with white, tense face and sawing hands. The eyes were fixed
straight ahead, vacant. A broken saddle-girth flapped raggedly. Garrison
recognized the fact that it was a runaway, with Sue Desha up.

Another horse followed, throwing space furiously. It was a big bay
gelding. As it drew abreast of Garrison, standing motionless in the
white road, it shied. Its rider rocketed over its head, thudded on the
ground, heaved once or twice, and then lay very still. The horse swept
on. As it passed, Garrison swung beside it, caught its pace for an
instant, and then eased himself into the saddle. Then he bent over and
rode as only he could ride. It was a runaway handicap. Sue's life was
the stake, and the odds were against him.



CHAPTER XI.