He brought Satan back to a hand canter, and so he pulled around the next curve of the gulch¹ and saw the trap squarely in front. He came to a full halt. For he saw a tall, strong barbed-wire fence stretching across the stream-bed, and beyond the fence were a litter of chicken-coops, iron bands from broken barrels, and a thousand other of those things which brand the typical western farm-yard; above the top of the bank to his left he caught a glimpse of the sharp roof of the house.  
He looked back, but it was far too late to turn, ride down the ravine to a place where the bank could be scaled, and cut across country once more. The posse came like a whirlwind, yelling, shooting as if they hoped to attract attention, and attention they certainly won, for now Dan saw a tall middle-aged² fellow, his long beard blowing over one shoulder as he ran, come down into the farm-yard with a double-barreled shotgun in his hands. He was a type of those who do not know what it is to miss their target—probably because ammunition³ comes so high; and with a double load of buckshot it was literally⁴ death to come within his range.
 
Dan knew that a great many chances may be taken against a revolver and even a rifle can be tricked, but it is suicide to flirt⁵ with a shotgun in the hands of one used to bring down doves as they sloped out of the air toward a water-hole. The farmer stood with his broad-brimmed straw hat pushed far back on his head looking up and down the ravine, a perfect target, and Barry's hand slipped automatically over his rifle.
 
His fingers refused to close upon it.
 
“I can't do it, Satan,” he whispered. “We got to take our chances of gettin' by, that's all. He couldn't have no hand with Grey Molly.”
 
Narrow chances indeed, by this time, for the brief pause had brought the posse fairly upon his heels; the farmer saw the fugitive⁶ and brought his shotgun to the ready; and Black Bart in an agony of impatience⁷ raced round and round the master. A wild cheer rose from the posse and came echoing about him; they had sighted their quarry⁸. From Rickett to Morgan Hills, from Morgan Hills to St. Vincent, from St. Vincent to Wago and far beyond; but this was the end of an historic run.
 
“D'ye see?” whispered Barry, leaning close to Satan's ears. “Lad, d'ye see what you've got to do?”
 
The black stood with his head very high, quivering through his whole body while he eyed the fence. It was murderously high, and all things were against him, the long run, the rise of the ground going toward the fence, and the gravel⁹ from which he must take off for the jump.
 
“You can do it,” said the master. “You got to do it! Go for it, boy. We win or lose together!”
 
He swayed forward, and Satan leaped ahead at full speed, gathering¹⁰ impetus¹¹, scattering¹³ the gravel on either side. The farmer on the inside of the fence raised his shotgun leisurely¹⁴ to his shoulder and took a careful aim. He knew what it all meant. He had heard of the outlaw¹⁵, Barry, with his black horse and his wolf-dog—everyone in the desert had, for that matter—and even had he been ignorant the shouting of the posse which now raced down the canyon¹⁶ in full view would have told him all that he needed to know. How many things went through his mind while he squinted¹⁷ down the gleaming barrel! He thought of the long labor¹⁸ on the farm and the mortgage which still ate the life of his produce every year; he thought of the narrow bowed shoulders of his wife; he thought of the meager¹⁹ faces of his children; and he thought first and last of ten thousand dollars reward! No wonder the hand which supported the barrels was steady as an iron prop²⁰. He was shooting for his life and the happiness of five souls!
 
He would save his fire till he literally saw the white of the enemy's eyes: until the outlaw reached the fence. No horse on the mountain-desert could top that highest strand²¹ of wire as he very well knew; and in his youth, back in Kentucky, he had ridden hunters. That fence came exactly to the top of his head, and the top of his head was six feet and two inches from the ground. To make assurance doubly sure he dropped upon one knee and made that shotgun an unstirring part and portion of himself.
 
Nobly, nobly the black came on, his ears pricking²² as he judged the great task and his head carried a little high and back as any good jumper knows his head must be carried.
 
The practiced eye of the farmer watched the outlaw gather his horse under him. Well he knew the meaning of that shortening grip on the reins²³ to give the horse the last little lift that might mean success or failure in the jump. Well he knew that rise in the stirrups, that leaning forward, and his heart rose in unison²⁴ and went back to the blue grass of Kentucky glittering in the sun.
 
Before them went the wolf-dog, skimming low, reached the fence, and shot over it in a graceful²⁵, high-arched curve.
 
Then the shout of the rider: “Up! Up!”
 
And the stallion reared and leaped. He seemed to graze it coming up, so close was his take-off; he seemed to be pawing his way over with the forefeet; and then with both legs doubled close, hugging his body, he shot across and left the highest strand of the wire quivering and humming.
 
The farmer hurled²⁶ his best shotgun a dozen yards away and threw up his hat.
 
“Go it, lad! God bless ye; and good luck!”
 
The hand of the rider lifted in mute acknowledgment, and as he shot past, the farmer caught a glimpse of a delicately handsome face that smiled down at him.
 
“The left gate! The left gate!” he shouted through his cupped h............