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 ness into which the horse bored with the confidence of a well-known way.

The whooping behind Simpson stopped, the shooting popped for a little while thereafter, when that also ceased. Whoever it was that made the spurt after him, Simpson thought, had charged with the bristling courage of a housedog, which a little effort and a dash of rough weather quickly cools.

He pulled up to listen. The world seemed as empty as it was black. There was not a sound. The lights of Drumwell were lost; his late companions seemed to have ridden into the black mouth of that silent mystery and disappeared.

Granted that his horse had taken the right road, it was not likely that the others would follow. They would have jumped off some other way when the gang rode out after them and began to shoot; it would be useless to draw to one side and wait in the hope of their passing. The horse would go home, according to the sagacity of its kind. He gave it the reins again.

It was a good while later, perhaps an hour or more, when Simpson, considerably cooled from the excitement and strain of his dramatic dash and escape, realized that he was drenched. He had been too much centered in getting out of that town to think about putting on a slicker, and if he had thought of it his hands were so full of horses it couldn't have been done.

A slicker would not do him much good now, except to keep the steam in and warm him up a little. He didn't even recall whether he had seen a slicker behind Waco