Better prolong the
run, for in the end no single horse could stand up against so many relays.
Yet it was maddening to watch the stallion float over hill and dale with
that same unbroken stride.
Once and again he sent the fresh horses from Wago after the fugitive in a
sprinting burst, but each time the black drifted farther away, and mile
after mile Mark Retherton pulled his field glasses to his eyes and strained
his vision to make out some sign of labor in the gait of Satan. There was
no change. His head was still high, the rhythm of his lope unfaltering.
But here the Wago Mountains--not more than ragged hills, to be sure--cut
across the path of the outlaw and in those hills, unless the message which
waited for him at Wago had been false, should be the men of Caswell City,
two score or more besides the fifteen fresh horses for the posse. Two score
of men, at least, Caswell could send out, and from the heights they could
surely detect the coming of Barry and plant themselves in his way. An
ambush, a volley, would end this famous ride.
The hills came up on them swiftly, now, and if the men of Caswell failed in
their duty it meant safety for the fugitive, because two miles beyond were
the willows of the marshes and the fords across the Asper River.
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