With a malignant scowl Cummings half turned in his saddle, and saying:

"No, damn me, no; not while I live," placed his revolver at the head of
Chip's mount and sent the ball crashing to its brain.

Down in its tracks shot the noble steed, the dark, rich blood jetting
from the ghastly hole, and deluging Chip with its crimson flood.

Chip, with the address of an experienced horseman, had lighted upon his
feet, his revolver still clutched in his hand.

The sudden fall of the leading horse had caused the remainder of the
party to haul up short to avoid running horse and rider down. This left
the road clear before him, and Chip, dropping on his knee took a long
careful sight at Cummings and fired.

A sudden swerve of Jim's horse saved him, but uttering a cry of pain,
Cook's steed, struck in a vital point, stopped short, and trembling in
every limb slowly sank to the ground. Cook, taken so unexpectedly, had
shot over his horse's head, and now lay, unconscious, in the center of
the trail, his two companions, driving the spurs deeper into the flanks
of their almost exhausted animals, dashed down the banks of the dividing
line and stood safe on Indian Territory.

The unconscious Cook was at once surrounded by the detectives and posse,
and a generous dose of brandy poured down his throat brought him to his
senses.

Chagrined beyond measure at the escape of his man, just when he was
about to put his hand on him, and at the loss of his horse, Chip was in