The end was very near, he felt, yet the chances were at least ten to
one that he would miss Pierre in the throat of the gorge, for among
the great boulders, tall as houses, which littered it, a thousand men
might have passed and repassed and never seen each other. Only the
calling of Pierre could guide him surely.
The calling had ceased for some moments, and he began to fear that he
had overrun his mark and missed Pierre in the heart of the pass, when,
as he rounded a mighty boulder, the shout ran ringing in his very
ears: "McGurk!" and a horseman swung into view.
"Here!" he called in answer, and stood with his right hand lifted,
bringing his horse to a sharp halt, like some ancient cavalier
stopping in the middle of the battle to exchange greetings with a
friendly foe.
The other rider whirled alongside, his sombrero's brim flaring back
from his forehead, so that McGurk caught the glare of the eyes beneath
the shadow.
"So for the third time, my friend--" said McGurk.
"Which is the fatal one," answered Pierre.
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