The fox—there he goes! He is a red fellow, fine and large, good for many a mile. He seems to run with his legs stretched straight and his body almost touching the ground, while his brush is defiantly erect. “This is indeed sport!” thought Frank Merriwell. “And, barring accidents, Firefoot will bring me in at the death.” “Hi! hi! hi!” The fox came to a fence. Under it he went. A moment later the hounds reached the fence, Pirate in the lead. Over they went in a stream, as pretty a spectacle as one could ask to see. Firefoot swept along like a meteor. Frank could have cut ahead of Harden, but he knew better than to do such a thing. He fell behind the bugler, but ahead of Fenton. The others of his party were farther back. The fence was reached, and Harden cleared it beautifully, without seeking for an easy spot. Frank followed, and Firefoot sailed over the obstruction like a bird. “Good boy!” laughed Merry. “You’re all right! I’d like to own you!” A strong feeling of affection for the horse sprang up in his breast. He touched Firefoot’s neck with a caressing hand. Now came some scrub timber, and through it darted the fox, with the hounds plunging at its heels. Harden did not swerve, but held straight on the track. Frank followed. Limbs were dodged, bushes slapped him in the face, and vines tried to drag him from the saddle; but he did not draw rein. Straight on he kept, and soon the small timber was behind. A road was reached and crossed. Ahead was a field that sloped gradually, presenting a full view of the chase. Still the fox was running speedily, holding its own with the dogs. “Ou-oo! ou-oo! ou-oo!” Again and again the entire pack gave tongue. An old farmer on his way to market, stopped his cart on the road, stood up, waved his hat about his head, and cheered like a boy. Once Frank looked back. “Jove!” he exclaimed. Almost neck and neck, Steve Fenton and Iva St. Ives were following him. It was plain that the girl was riding with as much reckless abandon as the best of them. It was not an easy thing for her dark-faced cousin to hold his own with her. “She is a queen!” muttered Frank, as he once more gave his attention to the chase. “I don’t wonder that Harden is stuck on her. And he appears like a fine fellow. I hope he wins her.” The fox had darted under another fence, and again the dogs were streaming over. Harden followed close, seeking no favors. His horse cleared the fence, and onward he went. “Firefoot, old boy,” laughed Frank, “you can follow him anywhere he goes.” Straight at the fence he charged. Firefoot lifted to the couch, settling on his haunches, then going up into the air. Just then, from some unknown point, a shot rang out, and the black horse pitched forward. Its forward feet struck the rail, and Frank was flung headlong. Firefoot came down with a crash, and lay still, a bullet in his brain! And just beyond the fallen horse Frank was curled in a heap upon the hard ground!