. . . Come on, boys!"
Elmer sagged in his saddle as though he had been struck a heavy
physical blow.
"Galloway got Fluff!" he muttered dully.
His gaze trailed along after the departing posse. Norton on his big
roan was setting the pace, the steady swinging gallop to eat up the
miles swiftly and yet not kill the horses before the journey's end.
The others followed him, stringing out single file to take advantage of
the trail. The moon picked them out with clear relief, a grim line of
retribution. And yet the boy, while his eyes wandered after them, saw
only little Fluff struggling in Jim Galloway's arms. . . .
Then suddenly he, too, was riding, but at a pace which took no heed of
a horse's endurance, riding a gallant brute that stretched out its
neck, nostrils flaring, hammering hoofs beating out the very staccato
of urgent speed upon the flying sands. Already his revolver was tight
clinched in a lifted hand. Already he had swerved a little from the
distant lights of San Juan. He was taking the shortest line which led
to Denbar's crossroads.
"Galloway's got Fluff," he said over and over, choking on the words.
An hour later Norton heard the first spitting of rifles. Another
fifteen minutes of shod hoofs pounding through the broken hills and he
saw the first spurts of flame cutting through the shadows where the
trees clung to the arroyo.
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