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“Pards, it’s no use; thet horse o’ his are a goer from Goersville, an’ he jist kept right ahead o’ ther cap’n’s mare,” said Prairie Pete, riding back into the timber, after half an hour’s chase of the fugitive gambler.

“Lady ain’t in good trim, Pete, jist now, as yer know she’s a leetle lame; ef not, she’d hev overtook ther My-fist-toe, as that gambler calt his animile,” answered a Texan, who had also just returned and dismounted.

“Did he kill Poker Dick?” asked a third, riding up.

“No; I guesses it were better of he had, though,” responded a young giant, with blond hair falling to his waist.

All looked at the speaker, who was known as Seven-foot Harry, on account of his great height. He shrugged his shoulders knowingly and made no reply. A moment after Captain Dash rode up, his brow stern, and his gaunt-bodied racing mare limping badly.

“The pace was too fast for Lady, boys, lame as she is, so he escaped; but only for a time.”

There was something in the tone of the leader which told his men that Kent King would find a dangerous man upon his trail in Captain Dash, who seemed determined to track him to the bitter end.