The outstretched neck of Grey Molly, her flattened ears, the rapid clangor
of her hoofs on the rocks, seemed to indicate that she already was doing
her uttermost, but after the glimpse of the pursuit, Barry crouched a
little lower, his hand gathering the reins just behind her head, his voice
was near her, speaking softly, quickly. She responded with a snort of
effort, as though she realized the danger and willingly accepted it. One
ear, as she rushed down the slope, was pricked and one flagged back to the
guiding, strengthening voice of the rider.
The path wound in leisurely curves now, but there was a straight cut down a
slide of gravel, a dangerous slope even in firm ground, a terrible angle
with those loose pebbles underfoot. Yet this was a time for chance-taking.
Already the dusty man on the roan rode with his revolver balanced for the
snap shot. The next instant his gun swung down, he actually reined up in
astonishment. The fugitive had flung himself far back against the cantle
and sent Grey Molly at the slide. It was not a matter of running as the
mare shot over the brink.
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