Whitestone and Adams nodded assent, and we eased our horses a bit that we might save their strength and speed. This maneuver enabled the fugitive to gain slightly upon us, but we felt no alarm; instead we were encouraged, for his horse was sure to become blown before ours put forth their best efforts.
Chudleigh raised up once to look back at us. Of course it was too far for us to see the expression of his face, but in my imagination anxiety was plainly writ there.
“How long a race will it be, do you think?” I asked Whitestone.
“About four miles,” he said, “unless a stumble upsets our calculations, and I don’t think we’ll have the latter, for the road looks smooth all the way.”
The fugitive began to kick his horse with more frequency, which indicated increased anxiety.
“It won’t be four miles,” I said to Whitestone.
“You’re right,” he replied; “maybe not three.”
In truth it looked as if Whitestone’s second thought were right. We began to gain without the necessity of urging our horses. Chudleigh already had driven his own animal to exhaustion. I doubted if the race would be a matter of two miles. I wondered why he did not try a shot at us with his pistols. Bullets are often great checks to the speed of pursuers, and Chudleigh must have known it.
At the end of a mile we were gaining so rapidly that we could have reached the fugitive with a pistol ball, but I was averse to such rude methods, doubly so since he showed no intent on his own part to resort to them.