Satan locked an ear back to listen; Black Bart rose with a muffled
growl. The posse rode in clear view now, and at their head was a tall, lean
man with the sun glinting now and again on his yellow moustaches. He threw
out his arm and the posse scattered towards the left. Obviously he was the
accepted leader, and indeed few men in the mountain-desert would not willingly
have followed Mark Retherton. Another gesture from Retherton, and at
once a dozen guns gleaned, and a dozen bullets whizzed perilously close to
Barry, then the reports came barking up to him; he was just a little out of
range.
Still he lingered for a moment before he turned Satan reluctantly, it
seemed, and started him down the far slope, straightaway for the Morgan
Hills as old Billy had prophesied. It would be no exercise canter even for
Satan, for the horses which followed were rare of their kind, and the
western horse at the worst has manifold fine points. His ancestor is the
Barb or the Arab which the Spaniards brought with them to Mexico and the
descendants of that finest of equine bloods made up the wild herds which
soon roamed the mountain-desert to the north.
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