Morton recognized the rescuing party, and knew that all was lost. Few among that picked band but would have been a good match for him single-handed, even before he received the wound that well-nigh disabled his left shoulder. With a bitter curse at his ill luck, the outlaw sprung upon his horse, and plunging spurs viciously into its ribs, dashed off in rapid flight. Three others imitated his example; either from chance or a hope that the young hunters would not separate, each outlaw chose a separate course, riding for dear life. As we have seen, Jack Colton marked his enemy, and followed in hot pursuit upon one of the horses that the Night Hawks had left fastened to the rail fence in the rear of the stables. Then began another mad, headlong race, the third one that had crossed the prairie that night. The moon still shone brightly, and Colton could plainly distinguish his quarry, save when a ridge intervened for a moment. The distance separating them was not more than two hundred yards, at the most, and to his fierce joy, Colton saw that this was gradually being lessened, and while urging on his excited horse, he assured himself that his pistols were in readiness for use. “Stop! Jasper Morton—coward!” he cried, in a voice that trembled with rage and hatred. “Stop and prove your manhood—it is only one man that chases you.” The Night Hawk turned and glanced over his shoulder, but instead of checking his madly racing steed, he bent lower in the saddle and urged him to a greater speed. Colton fairly howled aloud in his rage as he saw the outlaw slowly but surely creeping away from him, and drawing a knife, he thrust its keen point several times into the hips of his horse. Snorting wildly, the tortured brute sprung forward with a speed that seemed to rival that of the lightning’s bolt, and Colton laughed aloud as he raised his revolver. Another score moments and he felt that he would be within range. Then his pistol cracked, deliberately, at regular intervals. His nerves were like iron now, and he felt that revenge was his, at last. But the moonlight was deceitful, the motion of his horse unsteady, and the bullets hissed harmlessly by the fugitive. A bitter curse broke from his lips as he emptied the first revolver. Thrusting it into his belt, he again made use of the cruel spur. With wild, killing bounds, the tortured animal brought his merciless rider nearer his foe. Again Colton leveled a pistol—his second revolver. At its sharp report, the horse bestrode by the Night-Hawk leader gave a sudden bound, that told the bullet had found its mark. The pursuer laughed aloud, and leveled his weapon once more. The pursued uttered a fierce despairing curse and turning in his saddle, fired three shots in quick succession at his relentless pursuer.