"Halt! or I'll shoot."
The fugitives stopped, ducked, dashed toward us and by us, into the woods, and after them came the report of Oakes's revolver—we knew it by the quick, high-pitched note—and then—Oakes himself. It was evident to us he had fired in the air, for we all saw the small flame point heavenward as his weapon was discharged.
Neither fugitive slackened his speed, but both rushed across the plains east by northeast into the face of the moon as it rose off the plateau of Mona.
"What is who?" gasped Moore.
"The which?" I answered, as a polar chill chased up my spine.
"Oh, the d——l!" soliloquized Elliott.
"See, the second man limps—he must be O'Brien; he is chasing the first one," whispered the doctor as we gazed into the night.
"And Oakes is cavorting after the bunch—I play him straight and place," spoke Elliott; "he is gaining."
We watched Oakes, fleeter than ever, steadier, disappear in the distance as the moon entered a passing cloud-bank and all became lonesome and dark.
"Let's get on the plain," said Elliott, and we crawled as best we could out of the woods toward the place where the three were last seen by us.