The ex-engineer threw the horse on its haunches, springing from the saddle; and, as he did so, the beast collapsed, shuddering, to the ground. Annixter sprang from the window, and ran forward, Presley following.
There was Dyke, hatless, his pistol in his hand, a gaunt terrible figure the beard immeasurably long, the cheeks fallen in, the eyes sunken. His clothes ripped and torn by weeks of flight and hiding in the chaparral, were ragged beyond words, the boots were shreds of leather, bloody to the ankle with furious spurring.
“Annixter,” he shouted, and again, rolling his sunken eyes, “Annixter, Annixter!”
“Here, here,” cried Annixter.
The other turned, levelling his pistol.
“Give me a horse, give me a horse, quick, do you hear? Give me a horse, or I'll shoot.”
“Steady, steady. That won't do. You know me, Dyke. We're friends here.”
The other lowered his weapon.
“I know, I know,” he panted. “I'd forgotten. I'm unstrung, Mr. Annixter, and I'm running for my life. They're not ten minutes behind me.”
“Come on, come on,” shouted Annixter, dashing stablewards, his suspenders flying.