Mason, released, dared not turn. He plied his whip furiously. He had the legs of his pursuers and he meant to add to his distance. He heard the struggle going on behind him. He heard the gasp of a choking man. And, listening, he reveled in it as men of his stamp will revel in such things.
"Choke him, parson! Choke the swine!" he hurled viciously over his shoulder.
He got no answer. The struggle went on in silence, and presently Mason began to fear for the result. He slackened his horses down and glanced back. Tom Chepstow's working features looked up into his.
"I've got him," he said: then of a sudden he looked anxiously down at the man he was kneeling on. "He's—he's unconscious. I hope—— You'd better pull up."
"I wish you'd choke the life out of him," cried Mason furiously.
"I did my best, I'm afraid," the parson replied ruefully. "You'd better pull up."
But the lumberman kept on.
"Half a minute. Get these matches, and have a look at him. I'll slow down."
The churchman seized the matches, and, in his anxiety at what he had done, struck several before he got one burning long enough to see the unconscious man's face. Finally he succeeded, and an ejaculation of surprise broke from him.
"Heavens! It's Jim Truscott!" he cried.