saddled Dex, and, keeping close to the eastern wall, rode toward the
arroyo.

The morning sun traced clean, black shadows of the chaparral on the
sand. The bloom of cacti burned in red and yellow blotches of flame
against its own dull background of grayish-green. At the mouth of the
arroyo, Waring dismounted and dropped the reins. Dex nosed him
inquiringly. He patted the horse, and, turning, strode swiftly down the
dry river-bed. He walked upright, knowing that he could not be seen from
the trail. He could even have ridden down the arroyo unseen, and perhaps
it was a senseless risk to hunt men afoot in this land. The men he
hunted were Mexicans of Sonora; fugitives. They would fight blindly,
spurred by fear. Waring's very name terrorized them. And were they to
come upon the gringo mounted, Waring knew that there was more than a
chance his horse would be shot. He had a peculiar aversion to running
such a risk when there was half a chance of doing his work on foot.

Moreover, certain Americans in Sonora who disliked Waring had said
recently that no man was quick enough to get an even break with the
gunman, which tentatively placed him as a "killer," whereas he had never
given a thought to the hazard when going into a fight. He had always
played the game to win, odds either way. The men he sought would be
mounted. He would be on foot. This time the fugitives would have more
than a fair chance. They would blunder down the pitch into the arroyo,
perhaps glancing back, fearful of pursuit, but apprehending no
ambushment.

Waring knew they would kill him if they could. He knew that not even a
fighting chance would have been his were they in his place and he in
theirs. He was deputized and paid to do just what he was doing. The men