“I knew well that my horse was too fagged for much riding; and as the animal I bestrode was fresh from the stable, I was pretty sure of making my captive, if it was to be determined by speed alone.
“Moreover, my mule being miraculously void of the attributes of his race—obstinacy and slow gait—warmed to work, and gradually the thud of the hoofs ahead became more distinct.”
“Ah, you are a good rider, I suppose?” observed Wrench.
“Pretty well—aint you?”
“Nothing much to boast of.”
“Ah, but a fellow must know how to ride in America well.”
“In twenty minutes, on the moon-lit road, one-fourth of a mile ahead, I saw the man mounting a hillock at a far less rapid pace than mine. At last I come so near that I discerned two pistols stuck in his belt.
“I disengaged my own weapons, but did not fire, the rascal’s irregular motion—darting in and out of the skirting woods—excluded the possibility of hitting him.
“I called him to halt, at forty yards, levelled, and then let fly at him; a strange, agonising cry arose at the report; galloping through the smoke, I came upon a prostrate horse, no man.
“A crunching of crisp leaves among the trees betrayed the quick footsteps of the fugitive. Dashing into the woods, at three paces came a shot from the forest gloom, laying my mule stark dead, I leaping off just in time to escape a crushed limb.