swept into the clear country, well-armed, well-mounted,
the look on their strong, bronzed faces
told of their purpose, which was to get the thieves
alive, if possible. Down the long slope they
galloped, hats low against the sunlight, elbows
winging slightly, heads and backs slanting to the
winds, speeding like a group of centaurs. Other
than Stephen, there were four of these range
police. Men of insight, of experience, keen in
the ways of the lawless, knowing best of all the
type ahead, they rode without strain, without
urging, knowing that this was a long race, a matter
of endurance, a test, not for themselves so
much as for the horses, those of the pursued as
well as their own. Loosely scattered, they rode,
eyes not upon the thieves, but upon the horses
carrying the thieves, as if hopeful for another
break like that shown at the start by the magnificent
black.

Thus rode the rangers. Not so Stephen.
Stephen knew no such laws. All he knew was
that after long weeks of futile riding, here at last
was Helen's Pat galloping madly away from him.
Lashing and spurring his own bay mare, resolute
and determined, he gradually began to pull away
from the others.

Ahead, Johnson began slowly to gather in his
trailing tether-rope. Almost without visible effort
he wound it around his saddle-horn. Whereupon
Jim, evidently aroused to like danger of tripping,
set to work at the loop around the little gray's
neck. The knot was tight, and his position

[[200]]

p199 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p200w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p201

v?