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 Waco Johnson's horse and streaked out after the gang, who set off with a whoop, shooting defiance as they rode.

Waco Johnson was a good judge of a horse, Simpson thought, whatever his failings in other directions might be. That certainly was a hummer. Not knowing east from west in the obscuration of night and rain, Simpson gave the animal its head.

It seemed to Simpson that in five jumps and a snort his horse was past the bunch of three cowboys, and he was happy enough to have it split the wind that way, for some of the outraged friends of the city marshal evidently had taken horse in pursuit. One of them appeared to have a keen eye or a sharp scent, for he had singled Simpson out and was pushing him hard, yelling between shots for him to stop.

Stopping was the farthest thing from Tom Simpson's thoughts just then. He made himself as little as he could in the saddle and let the long-necked racer go. It would head for home, he reasoned, not greatly concerned over his separation from the Bar-Heart-Bar men, whose shots and whoops he could no longer hear.

Tight after him that persistent reprobate came, banging away with deadly intention but poor aim. None of his shots came near enough to be heard or, if so, their whine was drowned in the whistling wind of his speed. The horse was following a road, from its even gait, and a pretty good one at that. It was so dark there was no skyline, yet not a shade darker than Simpson would have ordered it if he had been arranging the night for the occasion. There was a little grayness in the clouds now and then; on the earth not a thing but the dungeon black-