Better than he had dared hope had the bandit-chieftain's ruse worked.
But the end of the race for life was not yet.
Though the world-famous desperado had held his course straight toward the whooping Indians, his mind and eyes had been almost entirely upon the troopers.
When he had caught sight of the first troopers rising from the ravine and realized the desperateness of the position of himself and his companions, with that instinct which had made him so valuable an asset to the old guerilla chieftain, Quantrell, in the days of the Civil War, he had realized that the one chance of escape open, lay in reaching the ravine.
Yet his eyes, calculating the distance nicely, told him that, should he make a dash for it, the troopers could head him off by riding along the edge of the gorge.
A moment he had been puzzled as to what to do. Then, in a flash, it had come to him that by retracing his course and riding straight at the howling savages he might be able to entice the soldiers to follow him, abandoning their strategic advantages of the position along the ravine.
With elation, he had seen the troopers fall into his snare.
This accomplished, he had kept watch of their pursuit, waiting for the instant when they should be so far away from the ravine that he could beat them to it.
At last the time came.
With a whispered command, he had bidden his pals wheel and rush for the gorge.