With wonderful speed he dashed towards the grove.
The man and the horse were speeding in different directions, chasing around in a sort of harum-scarum style, and only the emigrants were in pursuit of the wretch.
His wonderful burst of speed made his escape possible, and with a heart beating high with hope, he dashed onward for the horses, feeling that if he could leap upon the back of a fleet steed that he was safe.
A slender form sprang up as he neared the horses, an arm and hand were extended with a quick motion, and a flash of fire and a loud report told the villain’s doom.
With a loud cry James Van Dorn fell to the ground, shot down by the hands of Ralph Radcliffe.
The son had avenged the father.
The outlaw was dying when the emigrants gathered around him, his life-blood slowly ebbing from a wound very near to his heart.
They saw that he wanted to speak, so they raised him up and put some brandy down his throat.
“I killed his father,” he said, pointing to Ralph, as the boy stood before him with the smoking pistol in his hand. “It’s a square deal, for he only avenged the old man’s murder and I’m satisfied. If I’d lived, I’d had a rollicking time with all the money, but he’s fetched me up standing at last.”