"We've got 'em beat, Jim," he panted, "less thar's others headin' us
off; run like a white-head; don't mind me."
The road ahead was clear, except for the speeding cowboys, and the
marshal made extremely quick work of them. There was a fusillade of
shots, and when these ended, one rider was down in the dust, the other
galloping madly away, lying flat on his pony, with no purpose but to
get out of range. The two fugitives plunged into the bushes opposite,
taking the roughest but most direct course to where the rather
precipitous banks dropped off to the stream below. There was a dam a
half mile down, and even at this point the water was wide and deep
enough to make any attempt at crossing dangerous. But half-way over an
upheaval of rock parted the current, forcing the swirling waters to
either side, and presenting a stern grey face to the shore. The
marshal, pausing for nothing, flung himself bodily down the steep bank,
unclasping his belt, as he half ran, half rolled to the bottom.
"Here, take these cartridges," he said, "and hold 'em up.
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