“They must get over the narrow place where we crossed,” muttered he, as he faced towards the stallions, still advancing on the other side of the arroyo.
“If I can but fling one of them in his tracks, it may hinder the others from attempting the leap; or delay them—long enough for the mustang to make its escape. The big sorrel is leading. He will make the spring first. The pistol’s good for a hundred paces. He’s within range now!”
Simultaneous with the last words came the crack of the six-shooter. The largest of the stallions—a sorrel in colour—rolled headlong upon the sward; his carcass falling transversely across the line that led to the leap.
Half-a-dozen others, close following, were instantly brought to a stand; and then the whole cavallada!
The mustanger stayed not to note their movements. Taking advantage of the confusion caused by the fall of their leader, he reserved the fire of the other five chambers; and, wheeling to the west, spurred on after the spotted mustang, now far on its way towards the glistening pond.
Whether dismayed by the fall of their chief—or whether it was that his dead body had hindered them from approaching the only place where the chasm could have been cleared at a leap—the stallions abandoned the pursuit; and Maurice had the prairie to himself as he swept on after his fellow fugitive.
He overtook her beyond the convergence of the fences on the shore of the pond. She had obeyed him in everything—except as to the closing of the gap. He found it open—the bars lying scattered over the ground. He found her still seated in the saddle, relieved from all apprehension for his safety, and only trembling with a gratitude that longed to find expression in speech.
The peril was passed.