CHAPTER XIII

A BOLD BAD MAN


Bull had halted a moment outside the door of the shack to roll a
cigarette. Before he pulled out his tobacco bag he leaned the rifle
against the doorjamb.

His eyes, unaccustomed to the darkness, did not see the crouching
Racey Dawson within arm's-length.

Both of Bull's hands were cupped round the lighted match. He lifted
it to the end of the cigarette. He sucked in his breath and--a voice
whispered: "Drop that match an' grab yore ears."

Bull did not hesitate to obey, for the broad, cold blade of a bowie
rested lightly against the back of his neck. Bull swayed a little
where he stood.

"I got yore rifle," resumed the whisperer. "Walk away now. Yo're
headin' about right. Don't make too much noise."

Bull did not make too much noise. In fact, he made hardly any. It is
safe to say that he never progressed more quietly in his life. The man
with the bowie steered him to a safe haven behind a fat white boulder
half buried in sumac.