He plunged forward in a northerly direction. Dimly he could be seen through the underbrush; but plainly could be heard the crackling of branches and the snapping of twigs as his horse whipped through the low lying foliage. Was there, then, another way to the mainland—other than the one over which Johnson and Baker kept guard? How could it be? How Langford longed for his good rifle and its carrying power. But he knew how to use a pistol, too. Both men sent menacing shots after the fugitive. Langford could not account for the strange direction. The only solution was that Black was leading his pursuers a chase through the woods, hoping to decoy them so deeply into the interior that he might, turning suddenly and straightly, gain time for his desperate sprint across the exposed stretch of sand. If this were true, Baker and Johnson would take care of him there. Black returned the fire vengefully. A bullet scraped his horse’s flank. His hat was shot from his head. He turned savagely in his saddle with a yell of defiance. “You’ll never take me alive!” The fusillade was furious, but the trees and branches proved Black’s friends. It was impossible to judge one’s aim aright. His horse staggered. Another bullet sang and purred through the foliage, and the horse fell. “My God, Jim!” cried Langford. “My cartridges are out! Give me your gun!” For answer, Jim sent another bullet whistling forward. Black, rising from his fallen horse, fell back. “I got him!” yelled Jim, exultantly. He spurred forward. “Careful, Jim!” warned Langford. “He may be ‘playing possum,’ you know.” “You stay where you are,” cried Jim. “You ain’t got no gun. Stay back, you fool Boss!” Langford laughed a little. “You’re the fool boy, Jim,” he said. “I’ll go without a gun if you won’t give me yours.” They rode cautiously up to the prostrate figure. It was lying face downward, one arm outstretched on the body of the dead horse, the other crumpled under the man’s breast. Blood oozed from under his shoulder. “He’s done for,” said Jim, in a low voice. In the presence of death, all hatred had gone from him. The man apparently had paid all he could of his debts on earth. The body lying there so low was the body of a real man. Whatever his crimes, he had been a fine type of physical manhood. He had never cringed. He had died like a man, fighting to the last. Jim slowly and thoughtfully slipped his revolver into its holster and dismounted. Langford, too, sprang lightly from his saddle. Black had been waiting for this. His trained ear had no sooner caught the soft rubbing sound of the pistol slipping into its leathern case than he leaped to his feet and stretched out the crumpled arm with its deadly weapon pointing straight at the heart of Langford of the Three Bars. “Now, damn you, we’re quits!” he cried, hoarsely.