But his own purpose was clear enough to Charlie’s devoted mind. There must be no chance of Kate’s discovery by the police. Whatever had happened before, there must be no chance of harm to her now. His mind was quite clear. His thought flowed swiftly and keenly.
The distant sound of galloping horses was growing. The summit of the rising ground over which they must come was not more than two hundred yards behind him.
He waited. The clatter of hoofs was growing louder with each passing second. The police must certainly be near the top of the rise now. Bill was well away. He was well in the bush by this time.
Hark! Yes. There they were. The moon was hidden just now, but even so Charlie could see the bobbing figures at the hilltop.
Suddenly he rammed his heels into his horse’s flanks and dashed off up the slope which he had so recently descended. As he went he drew his revolver and fired two shots in swift succession in the direction of the horsemen approaching. Well enough he knew, as he raced on toward the village, that the police were beyond his range, but his purpose was that there should be no doubt in their minds that he—he was their quarry—that he was the man they had already been pursuing so far.
Ten men made up the tally of the pursuers riding with Inspector Fyles. McBain was not among them. He had remained with the abandoned buckboard while the rest of the police were scouring the neighborhood for the fugitives from the first encounter.
As Fyles came over the rise, and beheld the culvert below him, and heard the two defiant shots hurled in his direction, a thrill of satisfaction swept through him. The man was less than three hundred yards ahead of him with a long hill to climb, and something over a mile to go before the village, and the possibility of safety, was reached.
There was no match in the country for Peter when it came to a long, uphill chase. He told himself the man hadn’t a dog’s chance with Peter hard on his heels.
“We’ve got him, boys,” he cried to his men, in his moment of exuberance. “He ought to have been half a mile on by the start he got. It’s the poor devil of a horse playing out. He’s beat—beat to death. Now, boys, hard on my heels for a spurt.”