And after the galloping mare went Ralph, riding hard. It was like the old life once more--this wild gallop. He had ridden the half-wild broncho steeds of Texas, and he had no difficulty with this well-trained horse.
On he went; on, on, near and nearer to the flying man in front. He saw Lord Elgert look back at him. A man against a boy! Surely the man need have no fear in such a contest! And yet Lord Elgert did fear. He had feared this boy from the very first time he had seen him in Stow Wood. He had feared him from the moment Ralph had cut that bullet from the tree, and from the time when he had heard him declare that he would never rest until he had solved the mystery of his father's disappearance. That mystery was solved, all his wicked devices were brought to naught, and now he was fleeing for life and for liberty, being hunted just as he had made the police hunt Mr. Charlton. The tables were being turned indeed!
Nearer and nearer Ralph drew, and fiercer and more cruelly did the man lash the sides of his faithful little mare. Ralph stood up in his stirrups, and Lord Elgert looked at him over his shoulder. The boy had the rope in his hands. Ah, the very first thing he did when he had come to the place was to rope his black bull! Now he was going to serve him in the same way--to serve him as he had served the two dogs!
Lord Elgert saw the arm of the boy sweep round his head, and he ducked.
But Ralph had not aimed at him, he had a better plan than that. The noose settled over the little mare. Ralph pulled up, and braced himself for the shock which he knew would follow--a shock which nearly pulled him from his saddle. The mare went down, the trap was shattered, and Lord Elgert, totally unprepared--not even looking where he was going--was sent flying through the air to fall heavily, striking his temple against a rugged stump.
Ralph was at the spot in a moment. The man was stunned and at his mercy. The rope had done its duty as a lasso, and was now used to bind Lord Elgert. Ralph felt no remorse or compunction about that. He must take this man to his father, and his father must declare what should next be done.
"He isn't much hurt," he muttered; "nor are you, you poor thing," he added, turning to the plunging mare. "There you are"--as he cut her free from the ruin of the trap. "Now I reckon that you can find your own way home, and, in the meantime, I will wait here."