seemed a haunted man, or one fleeing from an inescapable danger.

The two loungers at the door of the hotel instinctively stepped aside
and made room for him to pass, but apparently he had no desire to
enter the building. Suddenly he became doubly imposing, as he stood on
the veranda and stared up and down at the idlers. Certainly his throat
must be thick and hot with dust, but an overmastering purpose made him
oblivious of thirst.

"Gents," he said huskily, while a gust of wind fanned a cloud of dust
from his clothes, "is there anybody in this town can gimme a hoss to
get to Stillwater, inside three hours' riding?"

He waited a moment, his hungry eyes traveling eagerly from face to
face. Naturally the oldest man spoke first, since this was a matter of
life and death.

"Any hoss in town can get you there in that time, if you know the
short way across the mountain."

"How do you take it? That's the way for me."

But the old fellow shook his head and smiled in pity. "Not if you
ain't rode it before. I used to go that way when I was a kid, but
nowadays nobody rides that way except Doone. That trail is as tricky
as the ways of a coyote; you'd sure get lost without a guide."

The stranger turned and followed the gesture of the speaker. The
mountain rose from the very verge of the town, a ragged mass of sand
and rock, with miserable sagebrush clinging here and there, as dull