For an hour he rode, warily, for he did not want to come upon Sanderson
unawares--if his men had not intercepted his enemy; and then reaching
the edge of a section of hilly country, he halted and sat motionless in
the saddle.

For, from some distance ahead of him he heard the reports of firearms,
and over him, at the sound, swept a curious reluctance to go any
farther in that direction.

For it seemed to him there was something forbidding in the sound; it
was as though the sounds carried to him on the slight breeze were
burdened with an evil portent; that they carried a threat and a warning.

He sat long there, undecided, vacillating. Then he shuddered, wheeled
his horse, and sent him scampering over the back trail.

He rode to the Bar D. His men--the regular punchers--were working far
down in the basin, and there was no one in the house.

He sat for hours alone in his office, waiting for news of the men he
had sent after Sanderson; and as the interval of their absence grew
longer the dark forebodings that had assailed him when within hearing
distance of the firing seized him again--grew more depressing, and he
sat, gripping the arms of his chair, a clammy perspiration stealing
over him.

He shook off the feeling at last, and stood up, scowling.

"That's what a man gets for givin' up to a damn fool notion like that,"