"Hallo!"
The call had come. Chepstow was at the edge of the trail. Mason's hopes dropped to zero. He abandoned himself to the inevitable, flung his weight on the reins, and brought his horses to a stand with a jolt.
"Where's Miss Betty?" he demanded. But his ears caught the sound of the men behind him, and he hurried on without waiting for a reply. "Quick, parson! The bags! fling 'em in, and jump for it! They're close behind!"
"Betty's gone back," cried Chepstow, flinging the sacks into the carryall. "I'm going back too. You go on alone. We've got the sick to see to. Tell Dave we're all right. So long! Drive on! Good luck! Eh?"
A horrified cry from Mason had caused the final ejaculation.
He was pointing at the off-side horse standing out at right angles to the pole.
"For God's sake, fix that trace," he cried. "Quick, man! It's unhooked! Gee! What infern——"
Chepstow sprang to secure the loosened trace. He, too, could hear the pursuers close behind. He fumbled the iron links in his anxiety, and it took some moments to adjust.
"Right," he cried at last, after what seemed an interminable time. Mason whipped up his horses, and they sprang to their traces. But as they did so there was a sudden rush from behind, and a figure leapt on to the carryall. The buckboard rocked and the driver, in the act of shouting at his horses, felt himself seized by the throat from behind.
Fortunately the churchman saw it all. His blood rushed to his brain. As the buckboard was sweeping past him he caught the iron rail and leapt. In an instant he was on his feet and had closed with Mason's assailant. He, too, went for the throat, with all the ferocity of a bulldog. The mantle of the church was cast to the winds. He was panting with the lust for fight, and he crushed his fingers deep into the man's windpipe. They dropped together on the sacks.