All in a grim instant he saw the trap. It closed upon his consciousness
with a click, and as he doubled Satan around he knew that the only
escape was in running southeast along the banks of the Asper. Even that
was a desperate, a forlorn chance, for if that omnipotent voice could
reach from Rickett to Caswell City, fifty miles away, certainly it must
have warned the river towns of Ganton and Wilsonville and Bly Falls
where Tucker Creek ran into the Asper. But this was no time for
thinking. Already, looking back, he saw the posse changing their saddles
to fifteen fresh mounts, and he headed Satan across the Wago Hills, West
and South.
It was hot work. Even the steel-wire muscles of Black Bart were
weakening under the tremendous labors of that day, and as he scouted
ahead his head was low and his red tongue lolled, and surest sign of
all, the bushy tail drooped; yet it was time to make a new call upon
both wolf-dog and horse, for the posse was racing after him as before,
giving even the fresh, willing mounts the urge of spurs and quirts. He
ran his hand down the dripping neck and shoulder of Satan; he called to
him; and with a snort the stallion responded. He felt the quiver as the
muscles tightened for the work; he felt the settling as Satan lengthened
to racing speed.
Through the Wago Hills, then, with Bart picking the way as before, and
never a falter in the sweep of Satan's running. If his head was a little
lower, if his ears lay flat, only the master knew the meaning, and
still, when he spoke, the glistening ears pricked up, and they bounded
on to a greater speed than before. The flight of a gull on unstirring
wings when the wind buoys it, the glide of water over the descent of
smooth rock, with never a ripple, like all things effortless, swift,
and free, such was the gait of Satan as he fled. Let them spur the fresh
horses from Caswell City till their flanks dripped red, they would never
gain on him.
On through the hills, and now the heave of his great breaths told of
the strain, down like an arrow into the rolling ground, and now they
galloped beside the Asper banks. The master looked darkly upon that
water.
Ten days before, when the snows had not yet reached the climax of
melting, ten days later when that climax was overpassed, the Asper would
have been fordable, but now a brown flood stormed along the gully, ate
away the banks, undermined the willows here and there, and rolled stones
larger than a man could lift. It went with an angry shouting as if it
defied the fugitive. It was narrow, maddeningly narrow, almost small
enough to attempt a leap across to the safety of the thickets on the
farther side, but the force of the water alone was enough to warn the
bravest swimmer away, and here and there, like teeth in the mouth of the
shark, jagged stones cut the surface with white foam streaking out below
them; as if to prove its power, even while Dan turned South along the
bank a dead trunk shot down the stream and split on one of the Asper's
teeth.
Even then he felt the temptation. There lay the forest on the farther
side, a forest which would shelter him, and above the forest, hardly
a mile back, began the Grizzly Peaks. They lunged straight up to snowy
summits, and all along their sides blue shadows of the afternoon drifted
through a network of ravines--a promise of peace, a surety of safety if
he could reach that labyrinth.
He was almost glad when he left the mockery of the river's noise to turn
aside for Ganton. There it lay in a bend of the Asper in the low-lands,
and every town where men lived was an enemy. He could see them now
gathered just outside the village, twenty men, perhaps and fifteen spare
horses, the best they had, for the posse.
On past Ganton, and again a call upon Satan to meet the first spurt
of the posse on its new horses. There was something in the stallion to
answer, some incredible reserve of nerve strength and courage. There
was a slight labor, now, and something of the same heave and pitch which
comes in the gait of a common horse; also, when he put Satan up the
first slope beyond Ganton he noted a faltering, a deeper lowering of
the head. When his hoofs struck a loose rock he no longer had the easy
recoil of the morning. He staggered like a graceful yacht chopped by
a cross-current. Now down the slope, now back to the roar of the Asper
once more, for there the going was most level, but always the strides
were shortening, shortening, and the head of the stallion nodded at his
work.
All that was seen by Mark Retherton through his glasses, though they
were almost close enough now to see details through the naked eye. He
turned in the saddle to the posse, grim faces, sweat and dust clotted in
their moustaches, their faces drawn and gray with streaks over the nose
and under the eyes where perspiration ran. They rode crookedly, now, for
seventy miles at full speed had racked them, twisted them, cramped their
muscles. Scotty kept his head tilted far back, for his spinal column
seemed about to snap. Walsh leaned to his right side which a tormenting
pain drew at every stride, and Hendricks cursed in gasps through a wry
mouth. It had been an hour since Mark Retherton last spoke, and when he
attempted it now his voice was as hoarse as a croaking frog.
“Boys, buck up! He's done! D'ye see the black laborin'. D'ye see it?
Hey, Lew, Garry, we've got the best hosses among us three. Now's the
time for a spurt, and by God, we'll run him down. I'm startin!”
He made his word good with an Indian yell and a wave of his hat that
sent his buckskin leaping straight into the air, to land with stiff
legs, “swallowing its head,” but then it straightened out in earnest.
That buckskin had a name from Bly Falls to Caswell City between speed and
courage, and it lived up to the record in the time of need. Close behind
it came Lew and Garry ponies scarcely slower than the buckskin, and they
closed rapidly on Satan. The plan of Retherton was plain: now that the
black was running on its nerve a spurt might bring them within striking
distance and if they could check the flight for an instant by opening
advance guard fire, they might drive the fugitive into a corner by the
river and hold him there until the main body the posse came up. The
three of them running alone the lead could do five yards for every four
of the slow horses, and the effect showed at once.
Going up a slope the trot of the stallion maintained or even increased
his lead, but when they reached the easier ground beyond they drew
rapidly upon him. They saw Barry bend low; they saw the stallion
increase its pace.
“By God,” shouted Retherton in involuntary admonition, “I'd rather have
that hoss than the ten thousand. But feed 'em the spurs, boys, and he'll
come back to us inside a mile.”
And Retherton was right. Before that mile was over the black slipped
back inch by inch, until at length Retherton called: “Now grab your guns
boys and see if you can salt him down with lead. Give your hosses their
heads and turn loose!”
They pulled their guns to their shoulders and sent a volley at the
outlaw. One bullet clipped a spark from the rocks just behind the
stallion's feet; the other two must have gone wide. Once more Barry
flinched closer over the neck of Satan and once again the horse answered
with a fresh burst of speed, but in a few moments he came back to them.
Flesh could not stand that pace after seventy-five miles of running.
They saw the rider straighten and look back; then the sun flashed on his
rifle.
“Feed 'em the spur!” shouted Retherton. “If we can't hit him shooting
ahead, he ain't got a chance to hit us shootin' backwards.” For it is
notoriously hard to turn in the saddle and accomplish anything with
a rifle. One is moving away from the target instead of toward it, and
every condition of ordinary shooting is reversed; above all, the moment
a man turns his head he is completely out of touch with his horse.
Apparently the fugitive knew this and made no attempt to place his
shots. He merely jerked his gun to the shoulder and blazed away as soon
as it was in place; half a dozen yards in front of Retherton the bullet
kicked up the dust.
“I told you,” he shouted. “He can't do nothin' that way. Close in, boys.
Close in for God's sake!”
He himself was flailing with his quirt, and the buckskin grunted at
every strike. Once more the rifle pitched to the outlaw's shoulder, and
this time the bullet clicked on a rock not ten feet from Retherton, and
again on a straight line for him.
“Damned if that ain't shootin'!” called Garry, and Retherton, alarmed,
swung the buckskin out to one side to throw the marksman out of line.
He had turned again in the saddle, and as though the episode were at
an end, restored his rifle to its case, but when they poured in another
volley about him, he swung sharply roundabout again, gun in hand. Once
more the rifle went to his shoulder, and this time the bullet knocked a
puff of dust into the very nostrils of the buckskin. Retherton reined in
with an oath.
“He's been warn in' me, boys,” he called. “That devil has the range like
he was sitting in a rockin' chair shooting at a tin-can. He's warnin' us
back to the rest of the gang. And damned if we ain't goin'!”
It was quite patent that he was right, for three bullets sent on a line
for one horse, and each of them closer, could mean only one thing. They
checked their horses, and in a moment the rest of the posse was
clattering around them.
“It don't make no difference,” called Retherton, “savin' in time. Maybe
he'll last to Wilsonville, but he can't stay in three miles when we hang
onto him with fresh hosses. The black is runnin' on nothin' but guts
right now.”