It was the Rider!
Even as Durham watched, the man saw him, saw him and swung his horse round so sharply it set back on its haunches.
In another moment he would be flying away through the gathering gloom, away into the broken fastnesses of the range, away, perhaps, for all time, from capture.
The horse was recovering itself. Durham threw his carbine forward and, as the horse reared at the pain of the spurs driven into its side, he fired.
Amid the echoes of the report there came a sharp scream of agony.
Durham leaped to his saddle and spurred his horse up the steep slope.
When he reached the summit only the marks of the flying horse's hoofs showed which way the man had gone.