kill or be killed, Dave was flying for the hills.

The fugitive had to use his quirt to get there in time. The steepness of
the road made heavy going. As he neared the summit the grade grew worse.
The bronco labored heavily in its stride as its feet reached for the
road ahead.

But here Dave had the advantage. Doble was a much heavier man than he,
and his mount took the shoulder of the ridge slower. By the time the
foreman showed in silhouette against the skyline at the entrance to the
pass the younger man had disappeared.

The D Bar Lazy R foreman found out at once what had become of him. A
crisp voice gave clear directions.

"That'll be far enough. Stop right where you're at or you'll notice
trouble pop. And don't reach for yore gun unless you want to hear the
band begin to play a funeral piece."

The words came, it seemed to Doble, out of the air. He looked up. Two
great boulders lay edge to edge beside the path. Through a narrow rift
the blue nose of a forty-five protruded. Back of it glittered a pair
of steady, steely eyes.

The foreman did not at all like the look of things. Sanders was a good
shot. From where he lay, almost entirely protected, all he had to do was
to pick his opponent off at his leisure. If his hand were forced he would
do it. And the law would let him go scot free, since Doble was a fighting
man and had been seen to start in pursuit of the boy.