Rathburn called upon his horse for a last, heartbreaking burst of speed and the dun made good. At the beginning of the slope to the ridge, Rathburn veered sharply to the right and burst through the trees a scant rod or two from his man. His gun was leveled straight at the other, who had been caught momentarily off his guard.
“Drop it!” shouted Rathburn, racing toward him.
The man’s right hand fell to his side while he checked his horse with his left. Rathburn rode in close to him and they came to a halt. Rathburn’s lips were curled in a smile of contempt. The other stared 42 at him, white-faced, his eyes wide and inquiring. The fingers of his right hand relaxed, and the gun fell to the ground. Rathburn swung low in the saddle and scooped it up, thrusting it into a pocket of his coat.
“Now beat it up over that ridge ahead,” Rathburn ordered. “And be quick about it. That posse may be close behind us.”
The other’s eyes lit up with surprise. “You––you’re not an officer?” he stammered.
“Shut up, you fool!” cried Rathburn. “You want to stay here an’ talk when there’s a score or two of men after us? I’m worse than an officer. Slope for that ridge now. Hurry!”
The man put the steel to his horse, and they dashed up the slope, crossed the ridge, and found themselves in a thick growth of timber which covered a large area.
“Pick your way into the middle of that patch of timber,” snapped out Rathburn. “An’ don’t forget I’ll be right close behind you. Get going––don’t gape!”
The captive’s face flushed at the other’s manner and the indubitable note of contempt in his voice. But he obeyed the instructions and pushed into the timber.
When they had proceeded some distance Rathburn called a halt. “Ever been in this country before?” he demanded with a sneer.