He ran his hardest, and had the satisfaction of getting into the lane before any of the pursuing party had even reached the field.
Ashbrook, as he was trotting down the lane, saw the fugitive jump through a gap in the hedge. The farmer urged on his steed, being now under the full impression that the capture of Peace was reduced to a certainty.
In a brief space of time he came within a hundred yards of the enemy.
“I’ve got him now!” exclaimed the farmer. “He’s mine as sure as my name’s Jack Ashbrook.”
But there’s an old adage “that it is as well not to reckon your chickens before they are hatched.”
Peace was in imminent danger, but he was an astute, cunning rascal, who was up to every feint and dodge in all cases of emergency. He, nevertheless, was fully impressed with the fact that matters were growing serious—much too serious to be pleasant. He turned round and boldly faced the horseman.
Drawing a revolver from his pocket, he watched till Ashbrook came within range of the shot, then he fired. At this time he could not have been more than twenty paces from the horse and its rider.
A bullet was lodged in Mr. Ashbrook’s right shoulder. The wound was not a very serious one certainly—not enough to place the farmer hors de combat, but the effects of the shot proved more disastrous in another way.
The mare, who was a high-spirited animal, became restive from the pistol’s flash. She reared, then stumbled, and threw her rider heavily to the ground. Peace rushed forward and struck Ashbrook two blows on the head, which produced insensibility.
He then made for the mare’s head. Turning her sharply round, he led her some paces from the scene of action. He patted her on the neck, and strove as best he could to overcome the effects of the fright caused by the flash of his weapon. The mare became comparatively quiet and tractable.