“A man’s a damned fool, Andy Green, to see more than is meant for him to see.  He’s plumb crazy to go round blatting all he knows.  You won’t tell that tale again, mi amigo!”

There was the pop of a pistol, a puff of blue against the gray, and then the fog reached out and gathered Blink and the sorrel to itself.  Only the clatter of galloping hoofs came to them from behind the damp curtain.  Andy Green was lying on his back in the grass, his cigarette smoking dully in his fingers, a fast widening red streak trailing down from his temple.

The Happy Family rose like a covey of frightened chickens before the echoes were done playing with the gun-bark.  On the heels of Blink’s shot came the crack of Happy Jack’s “howitzer” as he fired blindly toward the hoof-beats.  There was more shooting while they scurried to where their horses, snorting excitement, danced uneasily at the edge of the bushes.  Only one man spoke, and that was Pink, who stopped just as he was about to swing into the saddle.

“Damme for leaving my gun in camp!  I’ll stay with Andy.  Go on—­and if yuh don’t get him, I’ll—­” he turned back, cursing hysterically, and knelt beside the long figure in the grass.  There was a tumult of sound as the three raced off in pursuit, so close that the flight of the fugitive was still distinct in the fog.

While they raced they cursed the fog that shielded from their vengeance their quarry, and made such riding as theirs a blind gamble with the chances all in favor of broken bones; their only comfort the knowledge that Blink could see no better than could they.  They did not talk, just at first.  They did not even wonder if Andy was dead.  Every nerve, every muscle and every thought was concentrated upon the pursuit of Blink.  It was the instant rising to meet an occasion undreamed of in advance, to do the only thing possible without loss of a second in parley.  Truly, it were ill for Blink to fall into the hands of those three in that mood.

They rode with quirt and spur, guided only by the muffled pluckety-pluck, pluckety-pluck of Blink’s horse fleeing always just before.  Whenever the hoof-beats seemed a bit closer, Happy Jack would lift his long-barreled .45 and send a shot at random toward the sound.  Or Weary or Slim would take a chance with their shorter guns.  But never once did they pull rein for steep or gulley, and never once did the hoof-beats fail to come back to them from out the fog.

The chase had led afar and the pace was telling on their mounts, which breathed asthmatically.  Slim, best he could do, was falling behind.  Weary’s horse stumbled and went to his knees, so that Happy Jack forged ahead just when the wind, puffing up from the open, blew aside the gray fog-wall.  It was not a minute, nor half that; but it was long enough for Happy Jack to see, clear and close, Blink pausing irresolutely upon the edge of a deep, brush-filled gulley.  Happy Jack gave a hoarse croak of triumph and fired, just as the fog-curtain swayed back maddeningly.  Happy Jack nearly wept with pure rage.  Weary and Slim came up, and together they galloped to the place, riding by instinct of direction, for there was no longer any sound to guide.