Wrangle had indeed gone mad.
The marvel was what guided him. Was it the half-brute, the more
than half-horse instinct of Jerry Card? Whatever the mystery, it
was true. And in a few more rods Jerry would have the sorrel
turning into the trail leading down into the canyon.
"No--Jerry!" whispered Venters, stepping forward and throwing up
the rifle. He tried to catch the little humped, frog-like shape
over the sights. It was moving too fast; it was too small. Yet
Venters shot once ...twice...the third time...four times...five!
all wasted shots and precious seconds!
With a deep-muttered curse Venters caught Wrangle through the
sights and pulled the trigger. Plainly he heard the bullet thud.
Wrangle uttered a horrible strangling sound. In swift death
action he whirled, and with one last splendid leap he cleared the
canyon rim. And he whirled downward with the little frog-like
shape clinging to his neck!
There was a pause which seemed never ending, a shock, and an
instant s silence.
Then up rolled a heavy crash, a long roar of sliding rocks dying
away in distant echo, then silence unbroken.
Wrangle's race was run.
CHAPTER XVIII. OLDRING'S KNELL
Some forty hours or more later Venters created a commotion in
Cottonwoods by riding down the main street on Black Star and
leading Bells and Night. He had come upon Bells grazing near the
body of a dead rustler, the only incident of his quick ride into
the village.
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