Something inside of Carl seemed to snap, and a great glow of courage
swept over him. He fairly hated the sight of the grim rider in front of
him, who was taking him he knew not where, and whom he yet dreaded with
all his heart.
Up came the revolver again, and, almost before he realized what he was
doing, Carl was firing, straight at the back in front of him.
The target could not be fairer, that black mark against the snow.
The first ball struck, for Carl heard the thud of it, as if it had
struck and sunk into something soft.
The report of the weapon crashed through the still night, and was
carried far on the frosty air, reverberating and echoing back from the
distant mountains.
But the creature in whose body the ball had lodged did not seem to know
it. The head was not turned, the body did not lurch or sway.
Carl, now blind to everything but the terror that had taken possession
of him, fired again and again until every chamber in his revolver was
empty, pausing after every shot to note the effect.
That every shot was fair he was sure, for he could hear the sound of the
impact of the bullet.
The recipient of the bullets seemed not to know that they had been
fired, for he did not hasten or retard the progress of the horse, nor
did he take any personal notice that they gave him any discomfort.
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