Jesse rose in his saddle and swung the Winchester that he had drawn from the saddle holster, on his enemies. Two soldiers bit the dust. The troopers sprang to saddle. The death of their companions had filled them with mad lust for the blood of the desperado. Now they were yelling like a band of Indians who had discovered that their coveted prey was almost within their grasp. The fleeing bandit made a sudden discovery. The opposite side of the circle of troops was drawing in on him. But instead of taking alarm, Jesse was quick to note the advantage that their manoeuvre gave him. The newcomers fired a volley into the air to warn the Captain of their location that he might not fire into the ranks of his own men. Jesse shouted a jeer, and rising in his saddle again, pumped his Winchester first into the ranks of one body of troops and then into the other side, continuing to yell like a Comanche Indian on the warpath. It was maddening. Not a shot was fired in answer by the enemy. A blast of the bugle had commanded the troops to "cease firing." "Charge!" The notes of the command rippled musically from the bugler's horn and the troops, swinging to saddle as one man, swept down in pursuit. They were moving in a half circle formation, now. "We've got him this time, sure," exulted the Captain. "Depends on whether our horses are faster than his, which I very much doubt," objected the Lieutenant. "You've still got a few things to learn, young man," retorted his superior officer. "When you have been in the service longer you'll find out an officer has to use his eyes and every other sense that nature has given him, if he expects to save his hide, letting alone catching the enemy." "I don't catch you," shouted the Lieutenant above the sound of the fleet-footed rushing ponies. "He is headed for the canyon. That's what I mean." "The canyon! Good God!" gasped the young officer. "Surrender!" roared the Captain. "It's sure death to go on." The desperado rose in his stirrups. He again emptied his Winchester into the ranks of the pounding troop on his flanks. The feel of the swift-moving little Indian pony beneath him, filled him with unholy joy. On a fleet-footed animal the great outlaw feared neither man nor beast, and in very truth, few of the wild men or savages of the turbulent west, were his equals in the saddle any more than they were when it came to quickness on the trigger. Three ponies fell as the result of his deadly fire, and as many riders were hurled into the air, an instant later to fall with a sickening thud as they struck the hard ground. But the outlaw did not turn to note the result of his fusilade. He had other momentous things to occupy his mind at that moment. Casting his Winchester aside he threw his full weight on his toes in the stirrups and sat crouching like some wild animal about to spring upon its unsuspecting prey. The desperado's eyes were fixed and staring. Ahead of him yawned the black and awful abyss.