So he walked on, with a chill tingling passing up his spine. His heels lightened and rose from the ground of his own will. He walked as though he were expecting a bullet at any moment through the middle of his body.
But not until he was rounding the next corner of the ravine, at a little distance, did he venture a glance back, and then he saw Phil Bray leaning to pick up from the ground the paper which he had dropped!
He could not, of course, stop to discover what the three would make of that wisp of paper, or whether they would at once recognize the thing as the wrapping which had once been around a good, thick wad of greenbacks. But he could take it for granted that their wits would be a little sharper than those of ordinary men.
He was out of sight now.
He had to flee. They would doubtless be after him soon. And they had horses, while he was on foot with only a burro, which any man could outrun!
To his right, the wall of the ravine consisted of a great rubble of broken stone, gravel, small rocks, big ones, boulders as big as a house. It was a sort of giant’s staircase, but it would have to serve him now. He snatched the saddlebag from the side of the burro, turned, and bolted up among the rocks as fast as he could run.
After him, thin and small, wavered the voice of Lister, loudly shouting: “Wayland! Hey, come back here!”
He ran on, his heart thundering so fast that already he was weak with fear. He looked down after a moment and saw three riders sweep around the elbow turn of the canyon. He dived for shelter behind a great rock, but their wild yell of excitement told him that they had spotted him with the first glance.
XVI—THE PURSUIT
He went on, full speed. A moment later he had a chance to look down, and saw all three of them after him, eager as hunting dogs. Lister might be too long and weak in the legs, in seeming; but, in fact, he had the agility of a leaping deer. Mantry looked an athlete, and climbed like one. And as for Phil Bray, he was the sort of man that one could have told at a glance as one of the toughest and the strongest to be found.
They came swarming up over the rocks, and Wayland knew, at once, that he had only one way to escape—by using his wits.
The top of the ravine wall was not so very far above him, but he made no further effort to reach it. Instead, he pulled off his boots, dropped them in a crevice between two boulders, and turned sharply to the right, crawling among the rocks.
He heard the panting of the men as they climbed. He heard the gritting of their boots on the stones, the clank of steel, at least once—and then they were gone above him, toward the top of the ridge.
He was at once under way down the slope, moving rapidly, silently. He had to take chances now, because those fellows were foxes, and they might read his mind when they discovered that he was not at the top of the ridge or visible on the farther side of it.
So Oliver Wayland exposed himself recklessly all the way to the bottom of the slope, only taking special heed that no stone should be dislodged and rolled noisily down before him.
He gained the bottom, and looked up for the first time. He saw Joe Mantry standing slender and alert on the top of the slope, a rifle flashing in his hands. But Joe Mantry had his back turned, and was looking the opposite way.
Just at hand were the three horses. Should he try to take them all with him, or only select the fastest-looking of the lot and bolt on that one?
He decided on the second expedient. After all, he must trust on speed in the get-away rather than the chance of being followed, for riflemen like those desperadoes were not apt to miss, and their gunfire from the ridge would command the valley for a distance up and down it.
He picked on the horse of Phil Bray. It was not tall, but it was built long and low, with good, square quarters, and a rangy neck that promised striding ability. So he pitched himself into the saddle and walked the horse around the bend.
Not a shout, not a bullet, had followed him so far!
He let the horse break into a soft jog. Presently, looking back again, he saw Joe Mantry still on the ridge, for, as the distance increased, the angling bend of the canyon was no longer protection, and Mantry, on his high post, stood over the whole ravine like a hawk on hovering wing.
It seemed as though Wayland’s glance had pulled the eye of Mantry toward him. At that instant the sentinel turned, saw his man, and pitched the butt of his rifle against his shoulder.
Wayland, dropping forward in the saddle with a groan, shot the mustang away at full speed.
A humming sound twitched through the air over his head; something thudded against a rock not far away before him.
That was a bullet, he knew. He lay down flat on the back of the gelding, and the mustang responded by sprinting with all its might. Just ahead there was an S-turn which would shut away even the high post of Mantry from any view of him.
That was the goal of Wayland.
Then something thudded on the side of the saddle, and the horse staggered under him. The hind legs of the mustang seemed to be dragging in deep mud, while its forelegs still struggled to keep going at full gallop.
The gelding began to sag and stagger all to one side.
Wayland understood then. He grabbed the saddlebag that held the treasure, tucked it under his arm, and slid down to the ground just as a second bullet thudded through the skull of the horse and dropped it dead.
Glancing back, he could see Mantry lying out on the rock, taking good aim. Big Phil Bray and Lister were already legging it down the slope, leaping like mountain goats, regardless of brittle bones.
Wayland, as he started to run, dodged this way and that. Bullets sang past him. He was sure that he was lost, but he kept on struggling.
A slug struck fire out of a granite boulder beside him. Another twitched at the hair of his head. And then he had dodged out of fire range around the comer and into the windings of the S-turn.
Beyond that complicated turn there was a branching of tributary ravines, one to the right and one to the left. If ever he could manage to keep his wind until he reached the triple forking of the ways, he would take the right-hand turn and trust to fortune that the enemy would either go straight ahead or sweep to the left.
Behind him now he heard the rattling of the hoofs of horses raising out of the canyon, as from between two sounding boards, reduplicated echoes in a long roar.
That noise seemed sometimes near, and sometimes it appeared to recede. Now Wayland’s lungs were on fire. His knees were numb. He beat them down with his hands to give himself greater speed, but he was at a stagger when he came to the end of the S-turn and saw the ravines forking way out to either side.
He followed his original intention by swerving to the right, for the mouth of the ravine was narrow, and the pitch of the shadow right across it gave him promise of many windings. Perhaps it would immediately climb to the uplands, and there, among the trees, he would have ten-fold greater chance of getting away.
Or suppose that he were to drop from his hand the cursed weight of the saddlebag that anchored him and kept his feet dragging? He was running for his life now, but if he gave up the prize, he would be safe from those three thugs as though he were walking among friends down the main street of Elkdale.
Perhaps it was that thought of the sunny, dusty main street of Elkdale that decided him. For if he returned without the object of his quest, he would have few friends or none to walk beside him. He would remain to the end of his days, a suspected man; worst of all, he would be suspect to himself.