The line of horsemen wavered somewhat. They might have fired in return, and have brought down their quarry, but no brave man likes to think of shooting a lunatic.
So, still firing as he went, Ashby once more reached the edge of the quicksand.
Now, riding as fast as he could urge his pony, the hotel man dashed out on the Man-killer.
Nor was he riding over the part that had been rendered safe by the young engineers.
Instead, he was riding to the southward of the railroad property—straight out where he was likely to find a speedy death in the engulfing sands.
“Stop, Ashby! Come back!” shouted a dozen voices. “You'll be swallowed up in the quick-sands.”
Brave as they were, the pursuers now rein up sharply. It seemed to them sheer madness to ride out thus to their certain deaths.
“Ashby is crazy, all right,” remarked bronzed man. “None but an insane man would ride out there.”
Somewhat tardily automobile parties started in pursuit. These vehicles were halted at the edge of the quicksand. Tom and Harry had also come this far.
In the background the halted crowd watched in suspense as George Ashby galloped over the treacherous sand.