And the moment came. He spurred and lifted; and the game beast shot forward like a rocket. A moment, and she landed. But the half lights must have deceived her. She had jumped further than before, and, crashing into a boulder with her two fore feet, she turned a complete somersault, and fell headlong to the ground, hurling her rider yards out of the saddle into the soft loose sand of the trail beyond.
Quite unhurt, Tresler was on his feet in an instant. But the mare lay still where she had fallen. A hopeless feeling of regret swept over the man as he turned and beheld her. He saw the masked rider dash at the hillside on his weary horse, not twenty yards from him, but he gave him no heed.
It needed no look into the mare's glazing eyes to tell him what he had done. He had killed her. The first really honest act of her life had led to the unfortunate creature's own undoing. Her lean ewe neck was broken, as were both her forelegs.
The moment he had ascertained the truth he left her, and, looking up at the hill, saw that it was high time. The rider had vanished, but his jaded horse was standing half-way up the hillside in the mire of loose sand. It was either too frightened or too weary to move, and stood there knee-deep, a picture of dejection.
The task of mounting to the ledge was no light one, but Tresler faced it without a second thought. The other had only something less than a minute's start of him, and as there was only one other exit to the place--and that, he remembered, of a very unpromising nature--he had few fears of the man's ultimate escape. No, there was no escape for him; and besides--a smile lit up the hard set of his features at the thought--daylight had really come. The clouds had at last given way before the rosy herald of sunrise.
The last of the ascent was accomplished, and, breathing hard, Tresler stepped on to the gravel-strewn plateau, gun in hand. He felt glad of his five-chambered companion. Those rough friends of his on the ranch were right. There was nothing so compelling, nothing so arbitrary, nor so reassuring to the possessor and confounding to his enemies, as a gun well handled.
The ledge was empty. He looked at the towering cliff, but there was no sign of his man in that direction. He moved toward the hut, but at the first step the door of the dugout was flung wide, and Julian Marbolt, gun in hand, dashed out.