They had seen Red Jim
come battered and exhausted from his struggle with the stallion the
day before, and now he sat upon the bareback of the chestnut--a
miracle!
"Shoot!" yelled Hervey. "Shoot for the man. You can't hit the damned
hoss!"
In answer, a volley blazed, but what they had seen was too much for
the nerves of even those hardy hunters and expert shots. The volley
sang about the ears of Perris, but he was unscathed, while he felt
Alcatraz gather beneath him and sweep into a racing pace, his ears
flat, his neck extended. For he knew the meaning of that crashing
fire. Fool that he had been not to guess. He who had battled with him
the day before, but battled without man's ordinary tools of torture;
he who had saved him this very day from certain death in the water;
this fellow of the flaming red hair, was in truth so different from
other men, that they hunted him, they hated him, and therefore they
were sending their waspish and invisible messengers of death after
him. For his own safety, for the life of the man on his back, Alcatraz
gave up his full speed.
And Perris bowed low along the stallion's neck and cheered him on. It
was incredible, this thing that was happening.
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