In the course of an eventful life, Macon Fallon had become a connoisseur of western hospitality, and knew when a limit had been reached. Hence, when an escorting party, complete with rope, arranged to conduct him to the vicinity of a large cottonwood where the evening’s festivities would be concluded, he wasted no time on formalities, but promptly departed the premises. The moment chosen was, of course, appropriate to the situation. The self-appointed posse were as confident as a few drinks could make them, but were totally unaware of the quality of the man they escorted. One of the riders had lagged a little, and at that moment they came abreast of an opening in the brush that walled the trail. Fallon rode an excellent cutting horse that could turn on a dime. The black horse went through the opening with a bound and, sensing the urgency of its rider, took off on a dead run. No horse Fallon had ever seen could catch that black of his in under half a mile, and by the time that distance lay behind, Fallon was prepared to resort to evasive tactics.
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