“Ho!” shouted Ashton. “He’s running! I made him run!”
He sat up very erect in his saddle, staring defiantly at the place where the murderer had disappeared.
“The coward! I made him run!” he exulted.
He shifted his grip on his rifle, and the heat of the barrel reminded him that he had emptied the magazine. He reloaded the weapon to its fullest capacity, and stood up in his stirrups to stare at the ridge crest. The murderer did not reappear. Ashton’s exultance gave place to disappointment. He was more than ready to continue the duel.
He rode down the creek, searching for a place to ascend the cut bank. But by the time he came to a slope he had cooled sufficiently to realize the foolishness of bravado. Not unlikely the murderer was lying back out of sight, ready to shoot him when he came up out of the creek. He reflected, and decided that the going was quite good enough in the bottom of the creek bed. He rode on down the channel, over the gravel bars, at an easy canter.
After a half mile the bank became so low and the creek bed so sandy that he turned up on to the dry sod. As he did so he kept his eye warily on the now distant ridge. But no bullet came pinging down after him.
Instead, he heard the thud of galloping hoofs, and twisted about just in time to see a rider top a rise a 57 short distance in front of him. He snapped down his breech sight and faced the supposed assailant with the rifle ready at his shoulder. Almost as quickly he lowered the weapon and snatched off his sombrero in joyful salute. The rider was Miss Knowles.
She waved back gayly and cantered up to him, her lovely face aglow with cordial greeting.
“Good noon!” she called. “So you have come at last? But better late than never.”
“How could I help coming?” he gallantly exclaimed.