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 of shouts and yells. Out of the wootls to the right of the road the pursuers were streaming, so near at hand now that a little cry burst from her.

With a sudden tightening of the throat, Jolie realized what had happened—they had taken a shortcut around the other side of the hill and had reduced the distance by half.

It was a desperate race now—and soon it became not only a race but a battle. Some of the Appalaches were firing as they rode; three times the crack of rifles broke through the thunder of hoofs. It came over Jolie all at once that the end was near. She had loved horses, had talked with Lachlan often about them; and she remembered his telling her that the Spanish ponies of the Appalaches and their kindred, the Siminoles, were the swiftest in America.

Her hand tightened on Selu's rein, checking the claybank's stride. They would be overtaken soon, and she must be at Lachlan's side when that grim moment came.

Behind her she heard O'Sullivan shouting and, glancing back, she saw Lachlan close behind him and, close behind Lachlan, Almayne. Lachlan was waving to her furiously, urging her on. He drew his body erect and pointed ahead with his rifle; and swinging her gaze to the front again, she saw at the foot of a long, gentle, grassy slope the waters of a river glittering in the sun.

Her heels dug into Selu's flanks. Down the green slope she raced, the others crowding her close. Yet