The horses from St. Vincent already wheezed1 from the run, but the mounts of the posse were staggering completely blown. Ever since they left Rickett they had been going at close to top speed and the last rush finished them; at least seven of that chosen fifteen would never be worth their salt again, and they stood with hanging heads, bloody2 foam3 upon their breasts and dripping from their mouths, their sides laboring4, and breathing with that rattle5 which the rider dreads6. The posse, to a man, swung sullenly7 to the ground.
“Who's boss, boys?” called Johnny Gasney, puffing8 in his saddle as he rode up. “By God, we'll get him yet! They's a devil in that black hoss! Who's boss?”
“I ain't exactly boss,” answered Mark Retherton, whom not even fear of death could hurry in his ways of speech, “but maybe I can talk for the boys. What you want, Johnny?”
“You gents'll be needin' new hosses?”
“We'll be needin' graves for the ones we got,” growled9 Mark, and he stared gloomily at the dull eye of his pinto. “The best cuttin' out hoss I ever throwed a leg over, and now—look at him!”
“Here's your relay!” cut in Johnny Gasney. “Old Billy 'phoned down.” Five men came leading three spare horses apiece. “He phoned down and asked me to get fifteen hosses ready. He must of guessed where Barry would head. And here they are—the best ponies10 in St. Vincent—but for God's sake use 'em better'n you did that set!”
The other members of the posse set to work silently changing their saddles to the new relay, and Mark Retherton tossed his answer over his shoulder to Johnny Gasney while he drew his cinch brutally11 tight.
“They's a pile of hoss-flesh in these parts, but they ain't more'n one Barry. You gents can say good-bye to your hosses unless we nail him before they're run down.”
Johnny Gasney rubbed his red, fat forehead, perplexed12.
“It's all right,” he decided13, “because it ain't possible the black hoss can outlast14 these. But—he sure seemed full of runnin! One thing more, Mark. You don't need to fear pressin' Barry, because he won't shoot. He had his gun out, but I guess he don't want to run up his score any higher'n it is. He put it back without firin' a shot. Go on, boys, and go like hell. Billy has lined up a new relay for you at Wago.”
They made no pause to start in a group, but each sent home the spurs as soon as he was in the saddle. They had ridden for the blood of Pete Glass before, but now at least seven of them rode for the sake of the horses they had ruined, and to a cow-puncher a favorite mount is as dear as a friend.
They expected to find the black out of sight, but it was a welcome surprise to see him not half a mile away wading15 across St. Vincent Creek16; for Barry quite accurately17 guessed that there would be a pause in the pursuit after that hair-breadth escape, and at the creek he stopped to let Satan get his wind. He would not trust the stallion to drink, but gave him a bare mouthful from his hat and loosened the cinches for an instant.
Not that this was absolutely necessary, for Satan was neither blown nor leg-weary. He stood dripping with sweat, indeed, but poised18 lightly, his head high, his ears pricked19, his nostrils20 distended21 to transparency as he drew in great breaths. Even that interval22 Barry used, for he set to work vigorously massaging23 the muscles of shoulders and hips24 and whipping off the sweat from neck and flank. It was several moments, and already Satan's breath came easily, when Black Bart shot down from his watch-post and warned them on with a snarl25, but still, before he tightened26 the cinches again and climbed to the saddle Barry took the fine head of the stallion between his hands.
“Between you and me, Satan,” he murmured, “our day's work is jest beginnin'. Are you feelin' fit?”
Satan nuzzled the shoulder of the master and snorted his answer; Black Bart had given the warning, and the stallion was eager to be off.
They crossed the creek at a place where the stones came almost to the surface, since nothing is more detrimental27 to the speed of a horse than a plunge28 in cold water, and with the hoofbeats of the posse growing up behind they cantered off again a little cast of north, straight for Caswell City.
There was little work for Black Bart in such coun............