A grim, determined expression on Bob Somers' face indicated clearly that he had no intention of obeying this command. Lying almost flat upon his pony's back, he urged him ahead until trees and bushes were whirling by with bewildering rapidity.
But fast as his pony tore, Tom Smull's went faster; and he realized that it was only a question of a short time when he would be overtaken—and then?
"There's going to be one of the liveliest musses Tom Smull was ever mixed up in," murmured Bob Somers, grimly.
"Stop—yer can't git away!"
Over swells, down the sides of little gullies, and across level stretches, the mad, headlong race continued, the shrill cry of a skulking coyote close at hand alone rising above the clatter of hoofs.
"I've got yer, pard!"
Bob Somers was on the point of wheeling his pony about, in order to face his determined pursuer, when the animal's fore legs suddenly plunged into a morass. It had been completely concealed by densely matted grasses and other vegetation.
As the snorting pony sank up to his knees, a stream of liquid mud shot into the air. Bob Somers found himself jarred from the saddle and catapulted over the animal's head. He landed at full length, and lay almost stunned amidst the grass and ooze.
Tom Smull had, perhaps, never been more astonished in his life. By the narrowest margin, he succeeded in pulling his own horse up in time. Then, with a whoop of triumph, he swung himself from the saddle.
"Knew I'd git ye, pard!" he yelled.