His pony had bounded forward, frightened by the cry.  Down went Van’s hand to his own revolver, and the gun came up cocked for action.

One glance he cast up the trail ahead—­and saw through Barger’s trick.  The cul de sac was perfect, and the convict had halted to fire.

It made a singular picture on Van Buren’s retina—­that gaunt, savage being, hairy, wild of eye, instinct with hatred and malice, posing awkwardly, and the sun-lit barrel of polished steel, just before its yawning muzzle belched lead and a cloud and a roaring detonation.

The bullet went wide, and Barger fired again, quickly, but more steadily.  That one landed.  It got Van just along the arm, burning in a long, shallow wound that barely brought the blood.

Van’s gun was down, despite Suvy’s panic of cavortings.  He pulled the trigger.  The hammer leaped two ways, up and back—­but the gun made no report, no buck, no cloud to answer Barger’s.  The cartridges, subjected to all that water of the day before, were worthless.

The third of Barger’s shots was fired from a closer range, as the eager creature closed in upon his enemy.  It let the daylight enter Van’s hat, near the top.

Van had snapped every shell in his weapon, with amazing rapidity—­to no avail.  The cylinder had flung around like a wheel, but the sounds were those of a toy.

Barger was steadied in his tracks for better marksmanship.  He had heard that succession of metallic snaps; he knew he had Van Buren at his mercy.  Three of his shots remained unfired, and a second, unused pistol in his belt, with more ammunition.  The fellow even smiled as he was aiming.

There was one thing to do—­and Van did it.  He leaped his broncho clean against the wall, then spurred him straight for Barger.  The shot that split the air again was splattered on the rocks.  Before the convict could make ready to avoid the charge, Suvy was almost upon him.  He partially fell and partially leaped a little from the broncho’s path, but was struck as the pony bounded by.

He yelled, for his leg was trampled and hurt by the pressure of Suvy’s shoe, nevertheless he scrambled to his feet at once, and fired wildly at his man.

He emptied his gun, drew the other, and ran, too eager for his deed of revenge to halt and take a steady aim.  A bullet punctured the broncho’s ear, and the blood flew back upon Van.

They were past the walls in the briefest time, and Van attacked the slope.  Barger came after, yelling in rage.  He tripped, and his hurt leg dropped him down.

Already wearied, and famished for drink, Suvy nevertheless rose to the needs of the moment with a strength incredible.  He scaled that sandy, treacherous slope like an engine built for the purpose.  It was love, pure love for the master on his back, that steeled the mighty sinews in his body.

Two shots and two bullets from below proclaimed renewed activities where Barger was once more on his feet.  But the man had lost too much ground to recover his advantage.  He knew that Van Buren, with a horse like that, could win the high ridge and escape.