There was but one possible move for him; for already the hoof-beats of the four guerrillas’ horses were growing louder.
Dad wheeled his horse and rode back at a dead gallop along the main road he had just entered.
Past the byway’s mouth he sped and straight on. The guerrillas, still on the byway, noted the maneuver and, with a quadruple yell, struck out across the intervening field to cut him off.
And for a brief space their action favored the refugee.
For the field they entered was newly and deeply plowed. Moreover, through its center, in a depression, was a bit of boggy ground almost worthy the name of quagmire.
The horses lumbered heavily over the plowed ground and sank almost to their knees when they came to the strip of mire. The roan, meantime, tore along the hard, yellow highway with undiminished speed.
One of the guerrillas whipped out a pistol and fired thrice in quick succession.
A bullet whined querulously past Dad’s head. A second caught him fairly in the bridle arm.
The shot was fired at longest pistol-range, and its force was almost spent before it reached its mark. Yet it bit its way through the uniform coat and the shirt-sleeve, and inflicted a light flesh-wound in the forearm.
The shock of the blow knocked the rein from Dad’s left hand and numbed his left arm to the shoulder. At the jerk on the bit the great roan swerved sharply in surprise.