Weir did not urge his horse to a similar pace, only maintaining a fast steady gallop that kept the other in sight though the space between again widened. Apparently Sorenson realized the folly of attempting to outrun, his pursuer at once, for he soon dropped back into a regular, mile-eating gallop. Gradually in turn Weir crept up to his old position. To each the only sound was that of drumming hoof-beats. In front rode the fleeing man--dethroned leader and criminal and murderer. Behind relentlessly came his Nemesis, the son of the man whom he had deceived and damned to mental suffering. All about them as they flew along was the silent, moonlit, sage-covered mesa. At their right towered the misty, unchanging peaks, as if watching unmoved this strange race of two human beings. A strange race, in truth,--a race where vengeance rode. CHAPTER XXX THE VICTOR Ten miles the two men had gone when Sorenson's horse began to fail. The rider's weight was proving too much for the sturdy little animal and though he strove to maintain his speed the strain told on lungs and legs. Weir had reduced the distance first to three hundred yards, then to two hundred, and at last but a hundred separated him from the man and horse ahead. The hard chase indeed was beginning to tell on his own mount. Flecks of foam flew from its lips; its neck was wet with sweat; the whistle of its breath was audible to the engineer at every stride. For as both men had realized that now the end could not be far off, they had pushed their horses to faster and faster galloping. On a sudden Sorenson swung his animal into a dim trail leading from the main road skirting the mountain range to the base of the mountains themselves. The first slopes were but a mile away, covered with a scattering growth of pinyon pines. Just in front, too, for which the trail seemed pointing, was a dark ravine filled with brush that rose to the denser timber above. This was the fugitive's goal. Once he could fling himself from the saddle and plunge into the undergrowth he would be safe from his pursuer. The two ponies struggled on with exhausted leaps. Weir had reduced the interval to seventy-five yards by the time half the distance was covered and to fifty as they drew near the mouth of the ravine. He measured his gain and the remaining two hundred yards or so with savage eyes, then drew his revolver. He desired to take Sorenson unharmed. But rather than that the man should escape he would kill him. Sorenson's horse stumbled, but a jerk of the reins saved him and kept him moving on. The engineer struck his own pony fiercely on the flank, which produced a tremendous effort in the striving beast that brought it within thirty paces or so of Sorenson. That, however, was the best it could do, labor as it would. Its knees were trembling at every stride, its head swinging heavily.