Once more Barry flinched closer over the neck of Satan and once again the horse answered with a fresh burst of speed, but in a few moments he came back to them.
Flesh could not stand that pace after seventy-five miles of running.
They saw the rider straighten and look back; then the sun flashed on his rifle.
"Feed 'em the spur!" shouted Retherton.

"If we can't hit him shooting ahead, he ain't got a chance to hit us shootin' backwards." For it is notoriously hard to turn in the saddle and accomplish anything with a rifle.

One is moving away from the target instead of toward it, and every condition of ordinary shooting is reversed; above all, the moment a man turns his head he is completely out of touch with his horse.
Apparently the fugitive knew this and made no attempt to place his shots.

He merely jerked his gun to the shoulder and blazed away as soon as it was in place; half a dozen yards in front of Retherton the bullet kicked up the dust.
"I told you," he shouted.

"He can't do nothin' that way.