McMahon and the scout leaped from their concealment, followed hard upon
the fugitive, and fired repeatedly at him from their revolvers.
Could he escape?
He had fronted worse perils than this. Would fortune still smile upon
him, or, deserting him in the moment of supreme need, leave him to
destiny? The darkness favored him. The dense woods were near. Would he
be able to reach them in safety?
McMahon and Leroyer, by simply going up to the door, and grasping the
outlaw firmly the moment he came out, might have made the capture in a
perfectly certain though commonplace manner. Both might be forgiven,
however, for a little nervousness and excitement. The prize was within
their grasp. For this moment they had lain out in the snow, wet and
hungry. Brought suddenly face to face with the moment, the moment was a
little too big for them. Neither of the pursuers aimed very steadily.
They grasped their revolvers, and made red punctures in the night.
What was that? A cry of pain.
The pursuers came up, and saw a figure totter and fall at their feet.
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