"The left gate! The left gate!" he shouted through his cupped hands, and as
the fugitive rushed through the upper gate he turned to face the posse
which was already pulling up at the fence and drawing their wirecutters.
As Barry shot out onto the higher ground on the other side of the farmhouse
he could see them severing the wires and the interruption of the chase
would be only a matter of seconds. But seconds counted triply now, and the
halt and the time they would spend getting up impetus all told in favor of
the fugitive.
Thirty-five miles, or thereabouts, since they left Rickett that morning,
and still the black ran smoothly, with a lilt to his gallop. Dan Barry
lifted his head and his whistling soared and pulsed and filled the air. It
made Bart come back to him; it made Satan toss his head and glance at the
master from the corner of his bright eye, for this was an assurance that
the battle was over and the rest not far away.
On they drove, straight as a bird flies for Caswell City, and Black Bart,
ranging ahead among the hills, was picking the way once more.
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