If he had been an ordinary rider, sitting heavily far back in the saddle, at the end of a long ride, Barry would either have been flung clear and smashed horribly against the rocks, or, more likely, he would have been entangled¹ in the stirrups and crushed to death instantly by the weight of his horse; but he rode always lightly poised² and when the mare³ pitched forward his feet were already clear of the stirrups. He landed, catlike, on hands and feet, unhurt.  
It had been a long shot, a lucky hit even for a marksman of the sheriff's caliber⁴, and now the six horsemen streamed over a distant hilltop and swept into the valley to take their quarry⁵ dead, or half dead, from his fall. However, that approaching danger was nothing in the eye of Barry. He ran to the fallen mare and caught her head in his arms. She ceased her struggles to rise as soon as he touched her and whinneyed softly. The left foreleg lay twisted horribly beneath her, broken. Grey Molly had run her last race, and as Barry kneeled, holding the brave head close to him, he groaned⁶, and looked away from her eyes. It was only an instant of weakness, and when he turned to her again he was drawing his gun from its holster.
 
The beating hoofs⁷ of the posse as they raced towards him made a growing murmur⁸ through the clear air. Barry glanced towards them with a consummate⁹ loathing¹⁰. They had killed a horse to stop a man, and to him it was more than murder. What harm had she done them except to carry her rider bravely and well? The tears of rage and sorrow which a child sheds welled into the eyes of Dan Barry. Every one of them had a hand in this horrible killing¹¹; was, to that half animal and half-childish nature, a murderer.
 
His chin was on his shoulder; the quiver of pain in her nostrils¹² ended as he spoke¹³; and while the fingers of his left hand trailed caressingly¹⁴ across her forehead, his right carried the muzzle¹⁵ to her temple.
 
“Brave Molly, good girl,” he whispered, “they'll pay for you a death for a death and a man for a hoss.” The yellow which had glinted in his eyes during the run was afire now. “It ain't far; only a step to go; and then you'll be where they ain't any saddles, nor any spurs to gall¹⁶ you, Molly, but just pastures that's green all year, and nothin' to do but loaf in the sun and smell the wind. Here's good luck to you, girl.”
 
His gun spoke sharp and short and he laid the limp head reverently¹⁷ on the ground.
 
It had all happened in very few seconds, and the posse was riding through the river, still a long shot off, when Barry drew his rifle from its case on the saddle. Moreover, the failing light which had made the sheriff's hit so much a matter of luck was now still dimmer, yet Barry snapped his gun to the shoulder and fired the instant the butt¹⁸ lay in the grove¹⁹. For another moment nothing changed in the appearance of the riders, then a man leaned out of his saddle and fell full length in the water.
 
Around him his companions floundered, lifted and placed him on the bank, and then threw themselves from their horses to take shelter behind the first rocks they could find; they had no wish to take chances with a man who could snap-shoot like this in such a light, at such a distance. By the time they were in position their quarry had slipped out of sight and they had only the blackening boulders²⁰ for targets.
 
“God amighty,” cried Ronicky Joe, “are you goin' to let that murderin' hound-dog get clear off, Pete? Boys, who's with me for a run at him?”
 
For it was Harry²¹ Fisher who had fallen and lay now on the wet bank with his arms flung wide and a red spot rimmed²² with purple in the center of his forehead; and Fisher was Ronicky Joe's partner.
 
“You lay where you are,” commanded the sheriff, and indeed there had been no rousing response to Ronicky Joe's appeal.
 
“You yaller quitters,” groaned Joe. “Give me a square chance and I'll tackle Vic Gregg alone day or night, on hoss or on foot. Are we five goin' to lay down to him?”
 
“If that was Vic Gregg,” answered the sheriff, slipping over the insult with perfect calm, “I wouldn't of told you to scatter²⁴ for cover; but that ain't Vic.”
 
“Pete, what in hell are you drivin' at?”
 
“I say it ain't Vic,” said the sheriff. “Vic is a good man with a hoss and a good man with a gun, but he couldn't never ride like the gent over there in the rocks, and he couldn't shoot like him.”
 
He pointed²⁵, in confirmation²⁶, at the body of Harry Fisher.
 
“You can rush that hill if you want, but speakin' personal, I ain't ready to die.”
 
A thoughtful silence held the others until

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