As if by the same impulse, all three of us clapped spur to horse, and forward we went at a gallop that sent the wind rushing past us. We were much too far away for the fugitive to hear the hoof-beats of our horses, but by chance, I suppose, he happened to look back and saw us coming at a pace that indicated zeal. I saw him give his mount a great kick in the side, and the horse bounded forward so promptly that in thirty seconds the curve of the hill hid both horse and rider from our view. But that was not a matter discouraging to us. The river was on one side of us not far away, and on the other cultivated fields inclosed with fences. Chudleigh could not leave the road unless he dismounted. He was bound to do one of two things, outgallop us or yield. We descended our hill and soon rose upon the slope of Chudleigh’s. When we reached the crest, we saw him in the hollow beyond urging his horse to its best speed. He was bent far over upon the animal’s neck, and occasionally he gave him lusty kicks in the side. It was evident to us that whatever speed might be in that horse Chudleigh would get it out of him. And so would I, thought I, if I were in his place. A fugitive could scarce have more inducement than Chudleigh to escape. Measuring the distance with my eye, I concluded that we had gained a little. I drew from it the inference that we would certainly overtake him. Moreover, Chudleigh was making the mistake of pushing his horse too hard at the start. It is better to pursue than to be pursued, and a great elation of spirits seized me. The cool air rushing into my face and past my ears put bubbles in my blood. “This beats watching houses in the night, does it not, Whitestone?” I said. “Aye, truly,” replied the sober sergeant, “unless he has a pistol and concludes to use it.” “We will not fire until he does, or shows intent to do so,” I said. Whitestone and Adams nodded assent, and we eased our horses a bit that we might save their strength and speed. This maneuver enabled the fugitive to gain slightly upon us, but we felt no alarm; instead we were encouraged, for his horse was sure to become blown before ours put forth their best efforts. Chudleigh raised up once to look back at us. Of course it was too far for us to see the expression of his face, but in my imagination anxiety was plainly writ there. “How long a race will it be, do you think?” I asked Whitestone. “About four miles,” he said, “unless a stumble upsets our calculations, and I don’t think we’ll have the latter, for the road looks smooth all the way.” The fugitive began to kick his horse with more frequency, which indicated increased anxiety. “It won’t be four miles,” I said to Whitestone. “You’re right,” he replied; “maybe not three.”