It was about eight in the evening when he galloped away, and at that hour it was quite dark.
The road took him quickly out of the city, and he was soon in a wild country where it would have been easy to imagine that there wasn’t a town within a hundred miles.
The sky was clear, but the moon had not yet risen.
Nick did not ride hard, for he felt in no hurry, and it was somewhat less than half an hour after he started when he noticed a long, high ledge at his right.
“Probably the place Kerr spoke of,” he thought.
He was glancing up at it, when his horse suddenly leaped violently.
At the same instant there was a flash and a report from the bushes at the other side of the road.
Nick’s hat flew from his head, and he felt a wave of heat cross his brow, which had been singed by a rifle bullet.
His hand caught his revolver, but before it was drawn another shot came, and the horse staggered and fell dead without a struggle.
Nick slipped off quickly, ran a few paces, and fell. Then he lay still and watched.