being seen or heard. As he was now a fugitive, it seemed every
man was his enemy and pursuer.

The horsemen were fast approaching. Presently they were abreast
of Duane's position, so near that he could hear the creak of
saddles, the clink of spurs.

"Shore he crossed the river below," said one man.

"I reckon you're right, Bill. He's slipped us," replied
another.

Rangers or a posse of ranchers in pursuit of a fugitive! The
knowledge gave Duane a strange thrill. Certainly they could not
have been hunting him. But the feeling their proximity gave him
was identical to what it would have been had he been this
particular hunted man. He held his breath; he clenched his
teeth; he pressed a quieting hand upon his horse. Suddenly he
became aware that these horsemen had halted. They were
whispering. He could just make out a dark group closely massed.
What had made them halt so suspiciously?

"You're wrong, Bill," said a man, in a low but distinct voice.

"The idee of hearin' a hoss heave. You're wuss'n a ranger. And
you're hell-bent on killin' that rustler. Now I say let's go
home and eat."

"Wal, I'll just take a look at the sand," replied the man
called Bill.