it broke her heart to make it. He called to her; he spurred again; the trot quickened, but though she labored bitterly, she could not raise a gallop. The trot was her best effort.
There was a shrill yelling behind, and Andrew saw Dozier, a hand brandished above his head. He had seen Sally break down; Gray Peter would catch her; his horse would win that famous duel of speed and courage. Rifle? He had forgotten his rifle. He would go in, he would overhaul Sally, and then finish the chase with a play of revolvers. And in expectation of that end, Andrew drew his revolver. It hung the length of his arm; he found that his muscles were numb from the cold and the cramped position from the elbow down. Shoot? He was as helpless as though he had no gun at all. His hand shook crazily under the strain. And in the meantime, flogging with his quirt, no doubt the marshal had kept his blood in circulation.
It gave Andrew a nightmare sensation, as of one fleeing in his sleep up a long stairs—only a step to gain safety, and yet his feet are turned to lead, and the horror rushes like the wind upon him from behind. He beat his hands together to bring back the blood. He bit the cold fingers. He thrashed his arms against the pommel of the saddle. There was only a dull pain; it would take long minutes to bring those hands back to the point of service, and in the meantime Gray Peter galloped upon him from behind!
Well, he would let Sally do her best. For the last time he called on her; for the last time she struggled to respond, and Andrew looked back and grimly watched the stallion sweeping across the last portion of the flat ground, closer, closer, and then, at the very base of the
