gan to marvel on his escape from the ranch with a whole skin. He did not know how long that man and woman continued shooting at him, but he recalled now a good deal of yelling out of the man and siren shrieking from the woman as they ran after him toward the road. He had made a quick departure, the only break in its smoothrunning success being the split in the band and his pause to cut his own horse loose.
Luck surely had been with him that day. He had not fired a shot, although he had jerked the rifle out of the scabbard when that raging, cursing fellow came tearing after him, throwing lead so close it seemed a miracle he missed. Simpson's loss had been one horse, and he was not certain it was his loss, strictly speaking. He could not say it was one of the Block E brand; just as likely an animal belonging to the rascals themselves, as nearly as they ever had honest title to a horse. From the way that cuss raged, Tom inclined to the opinion that it was one of his horses. The thought brought out a grin, which Simpson felt that he had coming. That surely had been his lucky day.
Doubly fortunate that he had not been obliged to hurt anybody. Of course he applied the range definition to the word. To hurt a man, in the parlance familiar to Simpson these past several years, meant to put him out of business for good. It was a delicate way of saying that subject had become a coroner's case. The charge of killing would not stand against him in that foray; at least, not yet. He hoped night, and endurance and luck, would put him beyond the possibility of that necessity.
Before long Simpson had reason to regret leaving the
