As at once transpired, it proved unnecessary. The piebald had no intention of falling back upon his man-pal. Instead, he hopped forward on hind legs until he had the black cornered, then flung down with all his weight. The thoroughbred, crushed to his knees, escaped by sheer agility the sharp-shod hoofs; wriggled his fringe-bedecked neck and satin shoulders from out the commoner’s clutch. Dumbly infuriated by his failure and urged by an imperative signal, Polkadot pressed such advantage as was left him. By sparing the black no time to recover, he gave Pape his opportunity. Head to tail the horses met with terrific impact. For the second or so in which both staggered, a stirrup each locked crushingly. Followed two fist blows from Pape, so nearly simultaneous that no on-looker could have been sure which did the work. He himself knew that his right had led by enough of a count to jolt his rival’s head into fair position for his gnarled left. Far out from saddle he leaned to put into that follow his last ounce of power. The blow landed nicely under the Easterner’s cleft chin. As the horses sprang apart, Harford toppled and fell. What would have been a clean knock-out of which no fistic specialist need have been ashamed was spoiled by a mishap. The falling man’s right foot did not clear the trap-like stirrup of his English saddle. The behavior of his thoroughbred too, was unfortunate. In a frenzy of alarm the black sprang forward, then dashed for the entrance of the glen, dragging his rider. Probably the fact that Harford was clear out, his body inert, saved him an immediate hoof wound, but there was scarcely a chance of his survival if hauled over the rocks of the entrance. His horse, however, did not reach that barrier. Having his rival dragged to injury or death was no more a part of Pape’s program than was murder a component of his hate. Before the black had covered two rods, Polkadot was after him, for once dug by the spurs which he had every right to consider worn for decorative purposes only. One hundred yards of green, with the sharp teeth of the rock trap but fifty farther on, brought the racing beasts neck and neck—brought Pape to an equestrian exploit conceived on the way. He kicked his right foot free of the wooden stirrup; encircled the saddle horn with his knee; throwing his weight on the left stirrup, leaned low. To retrieve a grounded hat or handkerchief from the saddle at gallop pace he regarded as a simple form of exercise. To seize and loft an unconscious man of Harford’s build was difficulty multiplied by his dead weight of some hundred-seventy pounds. “Impossible!” Pape’s jaw set with the thought-challenge which had taken him over the top of so varied contretemps—the word applied to him with such significance by the snob whom he was about to save.