This did not fit into their scheme. The
man-hunt had tuned their pulses to a high pitch. They wanted to lay
hands on Gary's slayer--to disarm him and bring him into the town of
Concho themselves--or, if he showed fight, to "get" him. They forgot
that he was little more than a boy. He was an enemy--and potently
dangerous.
"It's Young Pete," said a cowboy. "I know him by that black hat."
Plying quirt and spur the posse flung down the ridge and out across the
plain below. They would ride their quarry down before he reached the
boundary of the Concho--before he got among his friends.
Andy turned and glanced back. They were gaining on him. He knew that
his own horse was doing his best. Again he glanced back. The riders
were forcing their horses to a terrific pace that could not last long.
In a mile or so they would be close enough to use their rifles. But
the harder they rode the better Andy liked it. They would be in sorry
shape to make the long ride south after Pete, when they realized that
they were chasing the wrong man. If he could get out of it without
getting shot, he would consider himself lucky.
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