He threw up his head, flung around toward the strange horses he was leaving, and neighed—a sharp, shrill sound that carried up the slope like a bugle.
At the mouth of the Flange Big Basford stopped.
His own mount answered.
Once more came that challenge from below and Sud Provine came back out of the hidden passage on the jump.
“God damn!” he shouted, “that ain’t a Sky Line horse! Boys—we’re caught! Come quick!”
Selwood, far down the trail, knew with a surge of rage that the game was up and that he was in for it. He knew in the same second, however, that his own horse was fresh, while those others were not.
He clapped down hard with both spurs, got a good grip on his old gun, and sailed down the steep trail—“hell bent for election,” as he thought grimly.
He had a fair start and meant to make the most of it.
And he knew his horse.
Knew that this long-legged bay was the best horse in the country, save and except Sud Provine’s grey gelding with the filed shoe, and perhaps the rangy black which his new friend Smith rode.