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"Borrowed!" echoed the sergeant. "If he doesn't own that mare no man does."

The young ladies were in rapture. Miss Harper asked how he had done it.

The rifle cracked, but its ball sang over us; a shot answered it behind me; the howling man's voice died in a gurgle, and Sergeant Jim ran by me, leaped upon the horse that had stayed beside his fallen rider, and was off hot-footed after the other. "Turn your prisoner over to Kendall, Smith," he cried, "and put out like hell for Clifton!"

"Why did you not fire?"

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