It failed through no fault of theirs. Just as the jaws of the trap were
about to close the black stallion whisked out from danger, lunged over a
swell of ground, and was out of view. When they reached that point,
yelling, Barry raced his black out of range of all except the wildest
chance shot. The eight from St. Vincent drove their weapons sullenly into
the holsters; for the last five minutes they had been silently dividing ten
thousand dollars by eight, and the awakening left a taste of ashes.
They could only follow him now at a moderate pace in the hope of wearing
him down, and since a slight pause made little difference in the result--it
would even be an advantage to breathe their horses after that burst,--they
drew rein and cursed in chorus.
Chapter XXXII. Relays
The horses from St. Vincent already wheezed from the run, but the mounts of
the posse were staggering completely blown. Ever since they left Rickett
they had been going at close to top speed and the last rush finished them;
at least seven of that chosen fifteen would never be worth their salt
again, and they stood with hanging heads, bloody foam upon their breasts
and dripping from their mouths, their sides laboring, and breathing with
that rattle which the rider dreads.
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