One thing at least was in his favor if he had guessed the route of Lanning. The fugitive would hold Sally back for a long chase, not thinking that the marshal would run his horses out in the first twenty miles, but that was exactly what Dozier would do. At the end of the twenty miles, the fresh mounts from Long Bridge would be waiting for his men.
The first light of dawn came when they labored over the crest of the range, and as they pitched down toward the plain below, he picked out his men with shrewd glances. No one had joined who was not sure of his endurance or of his ability with weapons, for men knew that the trail of Andrew Lanning would not be child’s play, no matter what the odds. Dozier gauged them carefully and nodded his content.
A strange happiness rose in him. This was the continuation, after so long a gap, of the pursuit in which he had ridden Gray Peter to death in the chase of Sally and the outlaw. And this second time he could not fail. It was not man against man, or horse against horse, but the law against a criminal who must die.
If only he had been right in his guess as to Lanning’s direction! When the dawn brightened, he saw, far away across the plain, a solitary dark spot. He fastened his glasses on the moving object and made sure. Then he swept the lower slopes of the hills and found the huddling group of fresh horses that had been sent out from Long Bridge.
The marshal communicated his tidings to the men, and with a yell, they spurred on the last of the first relay.
XII
They changed horses and saddles swiftly, eager to be off on the fresh run. The marshal sent back to Long Bridge a message to telephone ahead to Glenwood to send out a fresh relay that must wait anywhere under the foot of the Cumberlands. Then he spurred on after his men.
Freshly mounted, they were urging their horses on at a killing pace, and presently the small form of Lanning began to come back to them slowly and surely. Twenty weary miles were behind Sally, and she could not stand against this new challenge. Yet stand she did! A fabulous tale at which he had often laughed came back to the marshal’s mind, a tale of some half-bred Arabian pony that had done a hundred miles through mountains between twilight and dawn. But the endurance of Sally seemed to make the tale possible.
By the time the day was bright and the light could be seen flashing on the silken flanks of Sally, they had drawn perilously close to her, but from that point on she began to increase her lead. Once or twice in the morning, the marshal stopped his own mount for a breath, and when he trained his glasses on the great mare, he could see her running smoothly, evenly, with none of the roll and lurch in her stride that tells of the weary horse. And then he called to his men and urged them to save the strength of their mounts. The greatest speed over the greatest distance, between that point and the first hills of the Cumberlands, that was what was wanted. There the second relay, which would surely run Lanning into the ground, would be waiting. That was fifteen miles away, and the blue Cumberlands were rolling vast and beautiful into the middle of the sky.
Toward the end of the stretch they had to send their ponies on at a killing pace, for Sally was slowly and surely drawing away. A sturdy gray dropped with a broken heart before that run was over, and still Sally went on to a greater lead and disappeared into the first hills of the Cumberlands.
But five minutes later the posse, weary, drawn-faced, ferociously determined, was on the fresh horses from Glenwood. They scattered out in a long line and charged the hills where Lanning had disappeared. Presently someone on the far left caught sight and drew in the others with a yell. That was the beginning of the hottest part of the struggle.
Nearly forty miles of running lay behind her, but Sally drew now on some mysterious reserve of strength that only those who know the generous hearts of fine horses can vaguely understand. The hilly country, too, was in her favor, and she took short cuts as nimbly as a goat. In spite of that, they pressed closer and closer. Before the middle of the morning came the crisis. Hal Dozier came in distant range, halted his horse, pitched his rifle to his shoulder, and tried three shots.
They fell wide of the mark. After half an hour more of riding, he called for a volley. It was given with a will. Dozier, watching through his glass like a general directing artillery fire, saw the hat jump and fall lopsided on the head of Lanning, and yet he did not fall, but turned in his saddle. Three times his rifle spoke in quick succession, and three little puffs of rock dust jumped before three of the men of the posse. Dozier cursed in admiration.
“It’s his way of telling us that he could have potted the three of you if he had wanted,” he said. “Now spread out and ride like the wind.”
They spread out and spurred obediently, fighting their horses up the slopes, which increased in difficulty, for they were nearing the heart of the Cumberlands. Sally still drifted just outside of close rifle fire. And eventually, about noon, she began to gain again. Hal Dozier shook his head in despair. Plainly the gallant mare must be traveling on her nerve strength alone, but how long it would last no one could tell.
He called his men back to a steady pace. They could only hope to get at Lanning now by wearing him down and reaching him by night. Certainly Sally would not last so long as that.
The afternoon came unendurably hot, with the men drooping and drowsy in their saddles from the long ride. It was at this time that they were jerked erect by the clang of three rapid shots, echoing a little distance ahead of them. They rounded the shoulder of the next hill hastily and saw the glistening form of Sally disappearing over a crest beyond, but in the hollow beneath them stood a horse with empty saddle, and the rider was lying prone beside it, his face exposed to the burning of the sun. Hal Dozier headed the rush into the hollow and dismounted.
It was Scottie who lay there, and Scottie had ridden his last ride. He begged for water feebly, but after it was given to him, he spoke more clearly, and they made a futile pretext of binding his wounds. One bullet had smashed his right shoulder. The other had pierced his body below the lungs, and he was in agony from it, but he made no complaint. Death was coming quickly on him. Hal Dozier hurried the posse on and remained holding the head of the dying man.
“It was Lanning,” murmured Scottie. “We blew the safe, Hal, and we planted Lanning’s coat there to fix the blame on him. Then we started out.”
“You were the four men on horses,” said the marshal. “But how did you keep ahead of Sally? And why did Lanning take after you?”
“We used Allister’s old gag,” said Scottie. “We planted relays before we turned the trick. Then we lit out in a semicircle. But Lanning … he must have known that we turned that trick and threw the blame on him … remembered that we had an old meeting place up yonder in the Cumberlands. And while we rode in an arc, he cut across in a straight line from Martindale, and Sally brought him up to us.
“We saw him following. We could see you following Andy. A game of tag, eh? The devil played against us, however. I cursed Sally till my throat was dry. There’s no wear -out to that mare. She kept coming on at us. Finally we drew up and gave our nags a breath and drew straws to see who should go back and try to pot Lanning. I got the short straw, and I went back. Well, it was a game of tag, and I’m it.” He added after a moment: “But while it lasted … a great game. S’long, Hal.”
He died without a murmur of pain, without a convulsion of face or body, and to the very end, he kept an iron grip on himself.
Hal Dozier rode like mad to the posse and communicated his tidings. The real criminals rode far beyond. The man they chased was acting the part of a skirmisher. They must ride now, not to kill Lanning, but to keep him from being overpowered by the numbers.