.

The Morgan Hills.
Once out of Rickett, Barry pulled the stallion back to an easy canter.
He had camped during the latter part of the night near the town and ridden in in the morning, so that Satan was full of running.

He rebelled now against this easy pace, and tossed his head with impatience.

No curb restrained him, not even a bit; the light hackamore could not have held him for an instant, but the voice of the rider kept him in hand.

Now, out of Rickett's one street, came the thing for which Barry had waited, and delayed his course--a scudding dust cloud.