The slayer of Pete Glass, he who had done the notorious Killing at Alder,
was almost in touch of their revolvers--and their horses were fresh. Not one
of that eight but would have given odds on his chances of sharing the
capture money. There were no spurs on the heels of Barry to urge Satan, and
no quirt in his hand, but a single word sent the black streaking down the
hill.
Going into the Morgan Hills he had gone like the wind, but now he rushed
like a thoroughbred standing a challenge in the homestretch. His nose, and
his flying tail were a straight line and the flash of his legs was a tangle
which no eye could follow as he shot east on the back trail, straight
toward the posse. For a mile or more that speed did not slacken, and at the
end of that distance he began to edge to the right.
The men behind him knew well enough what the plan of the fugitive was, and
they angled farther toward the north; there in the distance came the posse,
the cloud of dust breaking up now into the dark figures of the fifteen, and
if the men from St. Vincent could hold the pace a little longer they would
drive Barry between two fires.
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