“Shall we open out and give him a round, sir?”
Fyles nodded.
“Let ’em fire low. Bring his horse down.”
The corporal turned back to his men, and gave the necessary order.
“Open out!” he cried. “It’s just over a hundred yards. Fire low, and get his horse. We’ll be on him before he can pick himself up.”
“There’s fifty dollars between you if you can bring him down and keep his skin whole,” added Fyles.
Still keeping their pace, the men spread out from the trail, withdrawing the carbines from their leather buckets as they rode. Then came the ominous clicking of the breeches as cartridges were thrust home. Fyles, with Corporal Mooney, kept to the trail.
A moment passed. Then the first carbine spat out its vicious pellet. Fyles, watching, fancied that the fugitive had begun to flog his horse. Now, in swift succession, the other carbines added their chorus. There was no check in the pace of the pursuers. The well-trained horses were used to the work.
The first volley seemed ineffective. The men had not yet got their sights. The fugitive had another fifty yards before he reached the top of the long incline.
The distance to the top of the hill was lessening rapidly. Fyles was becoming anxious. It had become a matter of seconds before the man would clear the ridge.