"Doug, did he get you?"
Douglas had not fallen. He pushed the girl aside and ran to the plunging
Moose. Inez Rodman called from the door.
"Who's shooting?"
Still without speaking, Douglas threw himself on his horse and was off after the dim figure that raced down the west trail which led to the Pass. He did not heed Judith's call nor the quick patter of hoofs behind him. On and on through the frosty April night, Prince barking joyfully before, the Moose galloping at top speed, the stars sliding overhead. On past the Browns' noisy corral, past Falkner's brightly lighted cabin, and up the lifting trail to the Pass. The broken black line of the Pass, usually so clean-cut against the stars, looked wavering and uncertain. Douglas dropped forward and put his arms about the neck of the Moose.
Once in a while a horse is born with as much acumen as a mule plus the sensibility of a dog. The Moose, when he felt Doug's arms about his neck, dropped from a gallop to a trot and from a trot to a walk. Shortly, when Judith called, "Whoa-up, Moose!" he stopped and stood nickering uneasily. Judith dismounted and pulled the reins over Buster's head. Then she ran up to put her hand on Doug's knee.
"Doug! Doug! Where did he get you?"
"Don't hold me back, Jude!" said Douglas thickly. "Tie me onto the Moose and leave me after him. I'm going to finish him, now."
"You can't catch him. You're hurt too bad. Let me take you home, Doug."
There was no reply for a moment. The Moose moved his head uneasily up and down. Then, breathing heavily and brokenly, Douglas said, "Not—while you—think I told—Charleton."
That was the last he knew for some time. When he returned to consciousness, Peter and Judith were half dragging him, half lifting him into the post-office.