When the last of the pursuers found further effort useless,he checked his horse.Willock now sat erect on the broncho's bare back,lightly clasping the halter.Looking behind,he saw seven horsemen in varying degrees of remoteness,motionless,doubtless fixing their wolfish eyes on his fleeing form.As long as he could distinguish these specks against the sky,they remained stationary.To his excited imagination they represented a living wall drawn up between him and the abode of men.Should he ever venture back to that world,he fancied those seven avengers would be waiting to receive him with taunts and drawn weapons.
And his conscience told him that the taunts would be merited,for he had turned traitor,he had failed in the only virtue on which his fellow criminals prided themselves.Yes,he was a traitor;and by the only justice he acknowledged,he deserved to die.But the child who had lain so trustingly upon his wild bosom,who had clung to him as to a father--she was safe!An unwonted smile crept under the bristling beard of the fugitive,as he urged the pony forward in unrelaxing speed.Should he seek refuge among civilized communities,his crimes would hang over his head--if not discovered,the fear of discovery would be his,day and night.To venture into his old haunts in No-Man's Land would be to expose his back to the assassin's knife,or his breast to ambushed murderers.He dared not seek asylum among the Indians,for while bands of white men were safe enough in the Territory,single white men were at the mercy of the moment's caprice--and certainly,if found astride that Indian pony which the agent had ordered restored to its owner,his life would not be worth a thought.