Knew that this long-legged bay was the best horse in the country, save and except Sud Provine’s grey gelding with the filed shoe, and perhaps the rangy black which his new friend Smith rode. He could have wished that the grey was not behind him. It was dangerous work taking the slope of Mystery at a run, but there was danger behind and he chose the lesser evil. As if to make up for its defection the lean bay stretched and doubled like a greyhound and Selwood leaned low on its neck as best he could for the pitch—for he was listening for lead. He knew he was out of six-gun range, but he knew also that Sud Provine carried a rifle always on his saddle. The roar of horses running under difficulty—leaping, stiff-legged, sliding here and there—came down like an avalanche of sound, but there were no voices mingled with it. The Sky Line men were riding in a silence so grim that it sent a chill to Selwood’s heart. They meant death—and were avid for it. He knew he was holding his own in the breakneck race, and presently it seemed he was gaining slightly. He came as near to praying as one of his ilk could do, that the good bay horse might keep its feet, for a fall now would be as fatal as capture. The trees sailed by against the stars, rushing up from the dim darkness below to disappear into it above, and the wind sang in his ears like a harp. It seemed incredible that the tediously climbed slope could be so quickly descended—for he saw the thickening shadows of the mountain’s foot racing up toward him, the pale gleam of water beyond which meant the river. And then he heard what he had been dreading—the snap of a rifle, the whine of a ball. Sky Line, giving up capture, was trying for destruction. It was Provine he felt sure who held the gun. He dug in his spurs cruelly and the bay responded with a surge of speed which seemed certain death, but kept its feet miraculously. Once more came the snap and whine—again—and again—and again—as fast as the man behind it could pump the rifle. And then, just as the bay struck the waters of Nameless with a leap and a roar, it seemed to Selwood that the heavens opened up, that all the fire in the universe flamed in his brain. He swung far out to the left, a terrible lever of weight to the gallant animal floundering beneath him, and made the supreme physical effort of his life to get back into his saddle. His fingers dug into the wet mane like talons, he clawed desperately with his right heel and felt the spur hook. For what reason he could not have said, he opened his mouth and screamed—a hoarse, wild sound, like the soul’s farewell to its flesh. Perhaps he thought it was. Sud Provine, sitting his shivering horse where he had drawn it to a sliding stop on the trail above, deliberately shoved his gun into its saddle-straps. “I guess that’s th’ last of you, my buckko,” he gritted, “that’s your last ride, damn you! See how you like th’ water.” And he turned back up the slope.