Fortune favored him in the result, for though scarcely pausing for aim, one missile foiled Colton’s hopes. With a shrill scream of pain, the noble brute stumbled and fell, casting the settler headlong to the ground. A bullet had struck its foreleg, that already overtasked, gave way, causing the heavy fall. Morton heard the fall, and glancing back, uttered an exultant laugh. For a moment he pressed hard upon the bit, as though he would return to contemplate his triumph, but then, altering his mind, he spurred on. He was well-nigh disabled, and did not know how many or close were his pursuers. He was in no condition for a fight, just then. His wound, freely bleeding, already caused him to feel faint, his head beginning to swim dizzily. Added to this he felt his horse weaken and act as though failing. For a moment he wondered at this, for it was his own animal, a proved good one, but then he divined the cause. One or more of the settler’s bullets had found their mark. With hard-drawn breath and gritting teeth the outlaw glanced over his shoulder. To his joy the prairie was clear of pursuers. Then Colton had been alone! The horse twitched his tail, and his ears drooped. Morton knew what these symptoms meant, and he prepared for the result. Drawing hard upon the reins, he slackened his speed. It was time. The poor brute was trembling convulsively, the blood oozing from its nostrils and hanging lip. Morton sprung to the ground, with a fierce curse. The horse staggered when relieved from his weight, and gave a faint whicker as it turned its head toward its master. But that was all. With an almost human groan it fell forward, dead. “Curse the luck!” snarled Morton, wincing with pain as he moved his left arm. “Just now when I most need him—wounded, too! Them devils will be upon my track by daylight—and where can I go? In the _motte_? They’d unearth me there. Ha! I have it—I can hide in the _baranca_—at least until I can pick up strength to go further. There’s a thousand holes among the rocks that I can hide in; unless they try hounds,” and he started at the thought, for he knew that in such a case, he was indeed lost. Still Morton knew that the _baranca_ afforded him the best chance of eluding the search that he knew would be made for him, if only by Jack Colton, as the rocks would leave no sign for human eyes to trace him out by. His horse had carried him to within half a mile of the ravine, and though feeling weak and faint, he set out at his best pace for the refuge, not daring to stop even long enough to dress his wound. He little dreamed of the adventure that was to befall him there, else he might have hesitated before choosing the _baranca_ in preference to the woods.