George Ashby, seemingly possessed of the strength of half a dozen men, had wrenched himself free of his captors, felling both like a flash.

Then the hotel man leaped to his horse, freeing it and starting off at a mad gallop.
Instantly a score of men set off after the fugitive, swinging their lariats as they rode.
Crack! Crack! Bang! Snatching still another automatic revolver from one of his saddle bags, Ashby was now firing at those riding behind him.
The line of horsemen wavered somewhat.

They might have fired in return, and have brought down their quarry, but no brave man likes to think of shooting a lunatic.
So, still firing as he went, Ashby once more reached the edge of the quicksand.
Now, riding as fast as he could urge his pony, the hotel man dashed out on the Man-killer.
Nor was he riding over the part that had been rendered safe by the young engineers.
Instead, he was riding to the southward of the railroad property--straight out where he was likely to find a speedy death in the engulfing sands.
"Stop, Ashby! Come back!" shouted a dozen voices.

"You'll be swallowed up in the quick-sands." Brave as they were, the pursuers now rein up sharply.

It seemed to them sheer madness to ride out thus to their certain deaths.
"Ashby is crazy, all right," remarked bronzed man.