Yonder, riding on his spurs, come at this late
moment, was Jim Galloway. The man responsible for all of to-night's
bloodshed, for the disappearance of Florrie, for the death of Billy
Norton.
"Coming, Jim Galloway!"
Did he say it? Or again was it a voice shouting to him, urging him on?
He looked off to the east. Flying forms everywhere with other racing
forms pursuing, firing as they ran. Horses jerking back, rearing,
breaking away from the few men guarding them. Full defeat for Jim
Galloway there. But to the west? Galloway coming on at top speed,
shouting as he came, and, upon the mountain's lower slope the others of
Galloway's men, armed and bloodthirsty. If Galloway came to them,
whipped them with his tongue, stirring them with his magnetism . . .
why, then, the fight was all to be fought over.
Now again Norton, too, was running, bearing down upon the straggling
horses. He caught up the first dragging reins to lay his hand to,
swung up into the saddle, measured swiftly the distance between
Galloway and the men on the mountain . . . and used his spurs.
On came Jim Galloway, his wide, heavy shoulders not to be mistaken in
the rich moonlight, his hat gone, his head up, a rifle across the
saddle in front of him. Norton lost sight of him as he swept down into
the bed of the arroyo, caught sight of him again from the farther side.
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