Satan locked an ear back to listen; Black Bart rose with a muffled growl.

The posse rode in clear view now, and at their head was a tall, lean man with the sun glinting now and again on his yellow moustaches.

He threw out his arm and the posse scattered towards the left.

Obviously he was the accepted leader, and indeed few men in the mountain-desert would not willingly have followed Mark Retherton.
Another gesture from Retherton, and at once a dozen guns gleaned, and a dozen bullets whizzed perilously close to Barry, then the reports came barking up to him; he was just a little out of range.
Still he lingered for a moment before he turned Satan reluctantly, it seemed, and started him down the far slope, straightaway for the Morgan Hills as old Billy had prophesied.

It would be no exercise canter even for Satan, for the horses which followed were rare of their kind, and the western horse at the worst has manifold fine points.