Before they could rally, the dashing scout had cleared them.
A few shots were fired, but none seemed to take effect.
As their yells of rage rang on the air, the fugitive disappeared down the valley.
“That’s a pretty go!” muttered the leader of the discomfited gang. “I should rather have lost my right arm than that he should have escaped.”
“Did you recognize him, captain?” asked a tall, flaxened-hair soldier.
“He is Cavalry Curt.”
“Not Phil Kearney’s scout?”
“The same. I heard at headquarters yesterday that he was in these regions. His presence means us mischief.”
“And his escape something worse.”
“But he must not escape.”