And Tresler only thought of the man he was in pursuit of. His own neck or the neck of his mare mattered nothing to him then. Through him, or through the mare, they had lost Red Mask. He must rectify the fault. He had no idea how. His brain was capable of only one thought—pursuit; and he thanked his stars for the sure-footed beast under him. Nothing stopped her; she lifted to every obstruction. A cut-bank had no terrors for her, she simply charged it with her great, strong hoofs till the gravel and sand poured away under them and left her a foothold. Bushes were trampled down or plunged through. Blindly she raced for the top, at an angle that made her rider cling to the horn of his saddle to keep himself from sliding off over the cantle.
They passed Fyles struggling laboriously to reach the top. The Lady Jezebel seemed to shoot past him and leave him standing. And as he went Tresler called out—
“How much start has he?”
“He’s topping it now,” the sheriff replied.
And the answer fired Tresler’s excitement so that he again rammed both spurs into the mare’s flanks. The top of the hill loomed up against the sky. A thick fringe of bush confronted them. Head down, nose almost touching the ground, the mad animal plunged into it. Her rider barely had time to lie down in his saddle and cling to her neck. His thoughts were in a sort of mental whirlpool and he hardly realized what had happened, when, the next moment, the frenzied demon under him plunged out on to the open prairie.
She made no pause or hesitation, but like a shot from a gun swept on straight as the crow flies, her nose alone guiding her. She still held the bit in her jaws; her frolic had only just begun. Tresler looked ahead and scanned the sky-line, but the darkness obscured all signs of his quarry.
He had just made up his mind to trust to chance and the captious mood of his mare when the moon, crossing a rift in the clouds, gave him a sort of flashlight view of the horizon. It only lasted a few seconds, but it lasted long enough for him to detect a horseman heading for the Mosquito River, away to the right, with a start that looked like something over a mile. His heart sank at the prospect. But the next instant hope bounded within him, for the mare swung round of her own accord and stretched herself for the race.
He understood. She had recognized the possibility of company; and few horses, whatever their temper, can resist that.
He leaned over and patted her shoulder, easing her of his weight like a jockey.
“Now, you she-devil,” he murmured affectionately, “behave yourself for once, and go—go like the fiend you are!”