"They've hit the creek, eh?" said Whistling Dan. "Well, they'll mill around
a while and like as not they'll run a course south to pick me up agin."
He gestured toward the side, and as soon as Satan stood on the good going
once more, Barry swung into the saddle and headed straight back west. No
doubt the posse would ride up and down the creek bed until they found his
trail turning back, but they would lose precious minutes picking it up,
and in the meantime he would be far, far away toward the ford of Tucker
Creek. Then, clearly, but no louder than the snapping of a dry twig near
his ear, he heard the report of a revolver and it spoke to him of many
things as the baffled posse rode up and down the creek bed hunting for the
direction of his escape. Some one had fired that shot to relieve his anger.
He neither spoke to Satan nor struck him, but there was a slight leaning
forward, an imperceptible flexing of the leg muscles, and in response the
black sprang again into the swift trot which sent him gliding over the
ground, and twisting back and forth among the sharp-sided gullies with a
movement as smooth as the run of the wolf-dog, which once again raced
ahead.
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