The horses from St. Vincent already wheezed from the run, but the mounts
of the posse were staggering completely blown. Ever since they left
Rickett they had been going at close to top speed and the last rush
finished them; at least seven of that chosen fifteen would never be
worth their salt again, and they stood with hanging heads, bloody foam
upon their breasts and dripping from their mouths, their sides laboring,
and breathing with that rattle which the rider dreads. The posse, to a
man, swung sullenly to the ground.
“Who's boss, boys?” called Johnny Gasney, puffing in his saddle as he
rode up. “By God, we'll get him yet! They's a devil in that black hoss!
Who's boss?”
“I ain't exactly boss,” answered Mark Retherton, whom not even fear of
death could hurry in his ways of speech, “but maybe I can talk for the
boys. What you want, Johnny?”
“You gents'll be needin' new hosses?”
“We'll be needin' graves for the ones we got,” growled Mark, and he
stared gloomily at the dull eye of his pinto. “The best cuttin' out hoss
I ever throwed a leg over, and now--look at him!”
“Here's your relay!” cut in Johnny Gasney. “Old Billy 'phoned down.”
Five men came leading three spare horses apiece. “He phoned down and
asked me to get fifteen hosses ready. He must of guessed where Barry
would head. And here they are--the best ponies in St. Vincent--but for
God's sake use 'em better'n you did that set!”
The other members of the posse set to work silently changing their
saddles to the new relay, and Mark Retherton tossed his answer over his
shoulder to Johnny Gasney while he drew his cinch brutally tight.
“They's a pile of hoss-flesh in these parts, but they ain't more'n one
Barry. You gents can say good-bye to your hosses unless we nail him
before they're run down.”
Johnny Gasney rubbed his red, fat forehead, perplexed.
“It's all right,” he decided, “because it ain't possible the black hoss
can outlast these. But--he sure seemed full of runnin! One thing more,
Mark. You don't need to fear pressin' Barry, because he won't shoot.
He had his gun out, but I guess he don't want to run up his score any
higher'n it is. He put it back without firin' a shot. Go on, boys, and
go like hell. Billy has lined up a new relay for you at Wago.”
They made no pause to start in a group, but each sent home the spurs
as soon as he was in the saddle. They had ridden for the blood of Pete
Glass before, but now at least seven of them rode for the sake of the
horses they had ruined, and to a cow-puncher a favorite mount is as dear
as a friend.
They expected to find the black out of sight, but it was a welcome
surprise to see him not half a mile away wading across St. Vincent
Creek; for Barry quite accurately guessed that there would be a pause in
the pursuit after that hair-breadth escape, and at the creek he stopped
to let Satan get his wind. He would not trust the stallion to drink, but
gave him a bare mouthful from his hat and loosened the cinches for an
instant.
Not that this was absolutely necessary, for Satan was neither blown nor
leg-weary. He stood dripping with sweat, indeed, but poised lightly, his
head high, his ears pricked, his nostrils distended to transparency as
he drew in great breaths. Even that interval Barry used, for he set to
work vigorously massaging the muscles of shoulders and hips and whipping
off the sweat from neck and flank. It was several moments, and
already Satan's breath came easily, when Black Bart shot down from
his watch-post and warned them on with a snarl, but still, before he
tightened the cinches again and climbed to the saddle Barry took the
fine head of the stallion between his hands.
“Between you and me, Satan,” he murmured, “our day's work is jest
beginnin'. Are you feelin' fit?”
Satan nuzzled the shoulder of the master and snorted his answer; Black
Bart had given the warning, and the stallion was eager to be off.
They crossed the creek at a place where the stones came almost to the
surface, since nothing is more detrimental to the speed of a horse than
a plunge in cold water, and with the hoofbeats of the posse growing
up behind they cantered off again a little cast of north, straight for
Caswell City.
There was little work for Black Bart in such country as this, for there
was rarely a rise of ground over which a man on horseback could not
look, and the surface was race-track fast. Once Satan knew the direction
there was nothing for it but to sit the saddle and let him work, and he
fell into his long-distance gait. It was a smart pace for any ordinary
animal to follow through half a day's journey, and Barry knew with
perfect certainty that there was not the slightest chance of even the
fresh horses behind him wearing down Satan before night; but to his
astonishment the trailers rode as if they had limitless horseflesh at
their command. Perhaps they were unaware of the running that was still
in Satan, so Barry sent the stallion on at a free gallop that shunted
the sagebrush past him in a dizzy whirl.
A mile of this, but when he looked back the posse were even closer. They
were riding still with the spur! It was madness, but it was not his part
to worry for them, and it was necessary that he maintain at least this
interval, so he leaned a little forward to cut the wind more easily, and
Satan leaped into a faster pace. He had several distinct advantages
over the mounts of the posse. At their customary rolling lope they will
travel all day with hardly a break, but they have neither the size nor
the length of leg for sustained bursts of speed. Moreover, most of
the cowponies who now raced on the trail of Satan carried riders who
outweighed Barry by twenty pounds and in addition to this they were
burdened by saddles made ponderously to stand the strain of roping
cattle, whereas Barry's specially made saddle was hardly half that
weight. Perhaps more than all this, the cowponies rode by compulsion,
urged with sharp spurs, checked and guided by the jaw-breaking curb,
whereas Satan frolicked along at his own will, or at least at the will
of a master which was one with his. No heavy bit worried his mouth, no
pointed steel tormented his flanks. He had only one handicap--the weight
of his rider, and that weight was balanced and distributed with the care
of a perfect horseman.
With all this in mind it was hardly wonderful that the stallion kept
the posse easily in play. His breathing was a trifle harder, now, and
perhaps there was not quite the same light spring in his gallop, but
Barry, looking back, could tell by the tossing heads of the horses which
followed that they were being quickly run down to the last gasp. Mile
after mile there was not a pause in that murderous pace, and then,
cutting the sky with a row of sharply pointed roofs, he saw a town
straight ahead and groaned in understanding.
It was rather new country to Barry, but the posse must know it like
a book. They were spending their horses freely because they hoped to
arrange for a fresh series of mounts in Wago. However, it would take
some time for them to arrange the details of the loan, and by that time
he would be out of sight among the hills which stretched ahead. That
would give him a sufficient start, and he would make the fords near
Caswell City comfortably ahead. At Caswell City, indeed, they might get
a still other relay, but just beyond the Asper River rose the Grizzly
Peaks--his own country, and once among them he could laugh the posse to
scorn.
He patted Satan on the shoulder and swept on at redoubled speed,
skirting close to the town, while the posse plunged straight into it.
Listening closely, he could hear their shouts as they entered the
village, could mark the cessation of their hoof-beats.
Ten minutes, five minutes at least for the change of horses, and that
time would put him safety among the hills.
But the impossible happened. There was no pause of minutes, hardly a
pause of seconds, when the rush of hoofbeats began again and poured out
from the town, fifteen desperate riders on fifteen fresh mounts. By some
miracle Wago had been warned and the needed horses had been kept there
saddled and ready for the relay.
It turned an easy escape into a close chance, but still his faith in
Satan was boundless to reach the fords in time, and the safety of the
mountains beyond. Another word, and with a snort the great-hearted
stallion swept up the slope, with Black Bart at his old work, skirting
ahead and choosing the easiest way. That was another great handicap
in favor of the fugitive, and every advantage counted with redoubled
significance now, every foot of distance saved, every inch of climb
avoided.
A new obstacle confronted him, for the low, rolling hills were
everywhere checkered with squares and oblongs of plowed ground, freshly
turned, and guarded by tall fences of barbed-wire. They could be jumped,
but jumping was no easy matter for a tiring horse, and Barry saw, with
a sigh of relief, a sharp gulch to the left which cut straight through
that region of broken farms and headed north and east pointing like an
arrow in the direction of the fords. He swung down into it without a
thought and pressed on. The bottom was gravelly, here and there, from
the effect of the waters which had once washed through the ravine and
cut these sides so straight, but over the greater part of the bottom
sand had drifted, and the going was hardly worse than the hilly
stretches above.
The sides grew higher, now, with great rapidity. Already they were up to
the shoulder of Satan, now up to his withers, and from behind the roar
of the posse racing at full speed, filled the gulch with confusion of
echoes. They must be racing their horses as if they were entering the
homestretch, as if they were sure of the goal. It was strange.