He spurred his horse straight into the brush.

At the second crashing bound there came yells from the road, and then shots.

Duane heard the hiss of a bullet close by his ear, and as it struck a branch it made a peculiar singing sound.
These shots and the proximity of that lead missile roused in Duane a quick, hot resentment which mounted into a passion almost ungovernable.
He must escape, yet it seemed that he did not care whether he did or not.

Something grim kept urging him to halt and return the fire of these men.

After running a couple of hundred yards he raised himself from over the pommel, where he had bent to avoid the stinging branches, and tried to guide his horse.