Just then his horse stumbled for the last time, fell on its knees, and rolled over on its side. Laguerre flung himself clear and bounced to his feet. The pony struggled up, but Laguerre did not remount. He dragged his rifle from the scabbard and ran forward on foot to rejoin his comrade. Loudon was leaning over the saddlehorn examining the spot where the dusty man had left his horse. "Ground's kind o' hard," said Loudon, "but it looks like he'd headed for that flat." "He go dere all right!" exclaimed Laguerre, excitedly. "Come on, Tom!" Running awkwardly, for cow-country boots are not fashioned for rapid locomotion, Laguerre led the way toward a broad meadow fifty yards away. Once in the meadow the trail was easier to follow. The meadow was at least a quarter-mile wide, and woods bordered it on three sides. The trail led straight across it, and on into the forest. The trees did not grow thickly, and Laguerre, his eyes on the ground, threaded his way in and out between the trunks at an ankle-straining trot. He had excellent wind, had Telescope Laguerre. Loudon was forced to employ spurs and quirt in order to keep up with him. Four hundred yards deep in the forest they saw ahead an opening in the trees. A minute later they charged into a large meadow. In the middle of the meadow was an ancient shack, doorless, the roof fallen in, flanked by a corral which gave evidence of having been recently repaired. "Somethin' movin' in that corral," said Loudon, and dragged out his gun. Then, in half a watch-tick, a man on a chestnut horse flashed across the open space between the corral and the shack. Loudon and Laguerre swung to one side, but the man did not immediately reappear on the other side of the shack. A few steps farther and they saw him. He was riding directly away from them and was within fifty yards of the forest. The fugitive was a long two hundred yards distant, but they recognized his back without any difficulty. He was the dusty man from Hatchet Creek, and his horse was Loudon's Ranger. "Look out for the hoss!" cried Loudon, as Laguerre flung up his rifle. The rifle cracked spitefully once and again. The rider, with a derisive yell, disappeared among the trees. Laguerre dropped his rifle-butt, and began to utter strange and awful oaths in a polyglot of French and English. Loudon sheathed his six-shooter, kicked his feet out of the stirrups, and calmly rolled a cigarette. "No use a-cussin', Telescope," he observed. "He's done gone." Pht-bang! a rifle spat from the distant wood. Loudon's horse gave a convulsive sidewise leap, dropped with a groan and rolled half over, pinning Loudon to the ground. Laguerre, flat on his stomach, was firing at the thinning smoke-cloud under the trees. But there were no more shots from the forest. "Say, Telescope," called Loudon, "when yuh get plumb through would yuh mind pullin' this cayuse off o' my legs?"