Savage kept right on running as though the hounds of hell were snapping at his heels, so fast in fact that the big sombrero tumbled off just as he raced beneath a light.
"It is Savage!"
Suddenly there was gunfire in the valley night, the wicked lead droning around him as he did an impression of an antelope in full flight.
The wild shooting didn't hurt him, but the fall did. In the darkness, he ran headlong into a pit as dark as a pawnbroker's soul. He cartwheeled and cracked his head against a large stone that didn't give an inch. The sky seemed full of shooting stars and Roman candles as he clawed his way out the far side, cursing like a muleskinner. What price excitement now, Savage? And where had he left Stud? His brain was so addled he couldn't remember, and the loud voices and the thump of running feet drew closer.