Perhaps that
change of position saved both it and its rider. Straight across the pale
moon drove the body with head stretched forth, ears back, feet gathered
close--a winged horse with a buoyant figure upon it. It cleared a five foot
rock, and rushed instantly out of view among the boulders. The fugitive had
fired only one shot, and that when the stallion was at the crest of its
leap.
Chapter XVII. The Second Man
The sheriff was on his feet, whining with eagerness and with the rest of
his men he sent a shower of lead splashing vainly into the deeper night
beside the mountain, where the path wound down.
"It's done! Hold up, lads!" called Pete Glass. "He's beat us!"
The firing ceased, and they heard the rush of the hoofs along the graveled
slope and the clanging on rocks.
"It's done," repeated the sheriff. "How?"
And he stood staring blankly, with a touch or horror in his face.
"By God, Mat's plugged."
"Mat Henshaw? Wha--?"
"Clean through the head."
He lay in an oddly twisted heap, as though every bone in his body were
broken, and when they drew him about they found the red mark in his
forehead and even made out the dull surprise in his set face.
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