At every bend and turn, Phil’s heart stood still in the fear of an ambush, but he could do nothing but take that chance, if he ever wished to keep his quarry in sight. The lone rider, however, had evidently only one thought and that was to shake his pursuers.
The light was creeping up every minute. Phil looked away behind him and fancied he saw other riders tailing in behind Jim and Howden,––which was true, for the two had been joined by McConnachie and one other who had pursued the horseman but had been outridden by him over the old road from Okanagan Landing.
Phil began to realise that he was slowly gaining. The man ahead also became anxiously aware of the fact, for he cast a critical glance over his shoulder every now and again as if measuring the space between.
Through the part gloom, Phil noticed that he was masked and heavily bearded. He was unable to identify the figure with any he had seen in the Valley, and it flashed through his mind in a sub-conscious way that possibly a gang from the other side of the Line had engineered the bank robbery. Yet there was something in the gait of the great, striding, shadowy horse that was strangely familiar to him, even in the darkness that still held almost undisputed sway.
Twice that great brute ahead stumbled as if almost spent. Foot by foot Phil gained, until a bare fifty yards divided them.
The horseman rounded another bend in the road. Phil dashed along in hot chase.
He slowed up a bit, for the turning was treacherous. From the shadow of one of the great, shelving, cut-away rocks, the horseman in waiting jumped out on him. Phil’s mare plunged its fore feet into the soft earth, then 377 reared in terror. The robber pulled a gun and fired. The shot nicked a tiny piece from Phil’s ear as it sang past. The man shot again, this time without any apparent effect. He wheeled round, spurred his horse and dashed off once more along the narrow path, making for the last turn in the precipitous highway ere it ran from the side of the Lake across a cut in the hills and into the thickly wooded country.
Phil shook his reins. His mare sprang forward eagerly and held her own for a little. But suddenly she began to swing in her stride, then she stumbled, almost throwing her rider. Phil pulled her in and jumped to the ground, just in time, for she collapsed in a quivering heap, with blood oozing from a tiny hole in her chest and from her foaming mouth and distended nostrils.
Something rose in Phil’s throat, almost choking him. In his chagrin, he raised his fist and shook it at the retreating horseman, who, as if sensing his opponent’s impotence at the same time as he became exultant over his triumph and escape, stood up in his stirrups, turned completely in his saddle, pulled off his hat and waved it defiantly.
It was thus that he mirrored himself on Phil’s mind as he disappeared momentarily round that dangerous bend.