follow her pace. It began to look to Simpson as if he must abandon the slower animals to save himself.
While he was considering this course he saw the vanguard of his headlong retreat swerve sharply from the northwesterly course they had been following along the arroyo—which he noted for the first time was now out of sight—and head northeast. He realized in a flash they had struck the old cattle trail which he had followed into the Nation. Whooping to inspire the lagging bunch with new courage and speed, he rode among them, slapping them with his hat, setting up more noise than a man in less urgent extremity would believe possible for one human throat to make.
By the time he had turned this bunch into the trail and headed them after the leaders, the pursuers were almost within pistol-shot of Simpson. He told himself the time to stop running had come.
Sling out the rifle and begin to pump lead down the line! That was the time to stop, and to stop them. The horses were sure to go right on to Kansas, which could not be more than nine or ten miles away. It didn't seem to matter so much to Simpson just then whether he ever got there; the business immediately before him was right there, on that old cattle trail.
Simpson wheeled shooting. The pursuing band pulled up sharp, and got out their guns, slamming lead around him so fast it looked as if he had ridden into a swarm of grasshoppers which went plumping down at the roadside. Some of them came close—so close the horse squatted and jumped, trembling and snorting, apparently fully conscious of his danger.
