"Cut to the right! Cut to the right, Harry!" came the voice of the sheriff,
already piping from the distance as the last of the posse brushed out from
the trees. "Yo hoi! Gus, take the left arroyo!"
Two answering yells, and then the rush of hoofs fell away. They were
cornering the stranger, no doubt, and Vic struggled to lift himself to his
feet and watch until a faint sound from the dog made him look down. Bart
lay with his haunches drawn up under him, his forepaws digging into the
soft loam, his eyes demoniac. Instinctively Vic reached for his absent gun,
and then, despairing, relaxed to his former position. The wolf-dog lowered
his head to his paws and there remained with the eyes following each intake
of Gregg's breath. A rattle of gunshots flung back loosely from the hills,
and among them Vic winced at the sound of the sheriff's rifle, clear and
ringing over the bark of the revolvers.
Had they nailed the stranger? The firing recommenced, more faintly and
prolonged, so that it was plain the posse maintained a running fusilade
after the fugitive.
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