WRANGLE'S RACE RUN
and throwing up the rifle. He tried to catch the little humped, frog-like shape over the sights. It was moving too fast; it was too small. Yet Venters shot once . . . twice . . . the third time . . . four times . . . five! All wasted shots and precious seconds!
With a deep-muttered curse Venters caught Wrangle through the sights and pulled the trigger. Plainly he heard the bullet thud. Wrangle uttered a horrible strangling sound. In swift death action he whirled, and with one last splendid leap he cleared the cañon rim. And he whirled downward with the little frog-like shape clinging to his neck!
There was a pause which seemed never ending, a shock, and an instant's silence.
Then up rolled a heavy crash, a long roar of sliding rocks dying away in distant echo, then silence unbroken.
Wrangle's race was run.
