Billy took off his hat and scratched his head.

“Funny,” he thought, “how a girl and poetry can get a tough nut like me.  I wonder what the guys that used to hang out in back of Kelly’s ‘ud say if they seen what was goin’ on in my bean just now.  They’d call me Lizzy, eh?  Well, they wouldn’t call me Lizzy more’n once.  I may be gettin’ soft in the head, but I’m all to the good with my dukes.”

Speed is not conducive to sentimental thoughts and so Billy had unconsciously permitted his pony to drop into a lazy walk.  There was no need for haste anyhow.  No one knew yet that the bank had been robbed, or at least so Billy argued.  He might, however, have thought differently upon the subject of haste could he have had a glimpse of the horseman in his rear—­two miles behind him, now, but rapidly closing up the distance at a keen gallop, while he strained his eyes across the moonlit flat ahead in eager search for his quarry.

So absorbed was Billy Byrne in his reflections that his ears were deaf to the pounding of the hoofs of the pursuer’s horse upon the soft dust of the dry road until Bridge was little more than a hundred yards from him.  For the last half-mile Bridge had had the figure of the fugitive in full view and his mind had been playing rapidly with seductive visions of the one-thousand dollars reward—­one-thousand dollars Mex, perhaps, but still quite enough to excite pleasant thoughts.  At the first glimpse of the horseman ahead Bridge had reined his mount down to a trot that the noise of his approach might thereby be lessened.  He had drawn his revolver from its holster, and was upon the point of putting spurs to his horse for a sudden dash upon the fugitive when the man ahead, finally attracted by the noise of the other’s approach, turned in his saddle and saw him.

Neither recognized the other, and at Bridge’s command of, “Hands up!” Billy, lightning-like in his quickness, drew and fired.  The bullet raked Bridge’s hat from his head but left him unscathed.

Billy had wheeled his pony around until he stood broadside toward Bridge.  The latter fired scarce a second after Billy’s shot had pinged so perilously close—­fired at a perfect target but fifty yards away.

At the sound of the report the robber’s horse reared and plunged, then, wheeling and tottering high upon its hind feet, fell backward.  Billy, realizing that his mount had been hit, tried to throw himself from the saddle; but until the very moment that the beast toppled over the man was held by his cartridge belt which, as the animal first lunged, had caught over the high horn of the Mexican saddle.

The belt slipped from the horn as the horse was falling, and Billy succeeded in throwing himself a little to one side.  One leg, however, was pinned beneath the animal’s body and the force of the fall jarred the revolver from Billy’s hand to drop just beyond his reach.

His carbine was in its boot at the horse’s side, and the animal was lying upon it.  Instantly Bridge rode to his side and covered him with his revolver.