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 ing the pursuit. He was aware of a strange indifference, as though he were a mere spectator at a show. In the midst of this he heard Falcon's voice speaking very calmly.

"Eh, pedagogue," the voice said. "The long-winded, most damned pirate can teach you a trick or two, after all. D'ye hear me, man?"

O'Sullivan nodded.

"They think we're dead," Falcon continued quickly, "but in a minute they'll be back for our scalps. My horse bolted, but the big roan yonder will carry my weight. You try for the gray. If you get him, ride up the Path and ride hard. Ready? Now, go!"

In the same instant they leaped to their feet and dashed for the horses; and behind them immediately a wild whoop rang out, followed by a fierce chorus of yells and a scattered volley of shots.

The big roan was Jock Pearson's horse, a veteran of the wilderness, trained to stand where his rider left him. Falcon reached him, grasped the bridle, swung to his back, raced away up the Path. The gray horse jerked his head aside as O'Sullivan sprang for the bridle rein, reared, and trotted out of reach.

Beyond the gray stood quietly a sorrel Chicasaw pony that had belonged to one of Pearson's pack drivers, while beyond him again the laden ponies of the pack train snorted and tossed their heads. O'Sullivan knew that the sorrel was his only hope. The