"I don't catch you," shouted the Lieutenant above the sound of the fleet-footed rushing ponies.
"He is headed for the canyon. That's what I mean."
"The canyon! Good God!" gasped the young officer.
"Surrender!" roared the Captain.
"It's sure death to go on."
The desperado rose in his stirrups. He again emptied his Winchester into the ranks of the pounding troop on his flanks.
The feel of the swift-moving little Indian pony beneath him, filled him with unholy joy. On a fleet-footed animal the great outlaw feared neither man nor beast, and in very truth, few of the wild men or savages of the turbulent west, were his equals in the saddle any more than they were when it came to quickness on the trigger.
Three ponies fell as the result of his deadly fire, and as many riders were hurled into the air, an instant later to fall with a sickening thud as they struck the hard ground.
But the outlaw did not turn to note the result of his fusilade. He had other momentous things to occupy his mind at that moment.
Casting his Winchester aside he threw his full weight on his toes in the stirrups and sat crouching like some wild animal about to spring upon its unsuspecting prey.