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 ering for mighty springs over ravines which they ordinarily would have paused and looked around for breaks in the bank to ease them over. It was like a whirlwind that springs out of the somnolent quiet of a summer day.

Simpson rode tight after the band, throwing many a troubled look behind. Now he saw the pursuers, now lost them, but each fleet glimpse revealed them a little nearer. They were gaining slowly, but closing up the gap as surely as good horses and good riders could do it over a free-running band. They were getting close enough to start shooting; Simpson wondered why they didn't cut loose.

Then he remembered his standing in the eyes of those men. They didn't want to shoot him if they could save him alive for the rope. He was a horsethief, and a horsethief should always be hung if possible. It was not alone the inflexible code of the Cherokee trails, but of the range. Simpson knew it as well as anybody. He was not to be shot, except to incapacitate him from using his gun or to save the lives of those closing in upon him. They would kill his horse, and rush him while he was entangled, if he did not get clear of it as it fell.

It was not long until this hard pace began to tell on the less fleet and vigorous horses in Simpson's band. These began to lag; those in the lead drew away from them, dividing the herd. Simpson did not want to lose this bunch of laggards, there being among them several of the likeliest-looking draft horses of the Block E brand.

The fleet mare which had led the retreat from captivity was still ahead, running free and tireless, going as if certain of her course. Not more than nine or ten were able to