L-o-n-g t-i-m-e ago!"

roared the Texan as he threw open the cylinder of his gun.

"H-e-e-e-e scraped his horn on a hickory saplin',
L-o-n-g t-i-m-e ago----"

There was a sudden commotion behind him, a swift rush of feet, a muffled
thud, and a gasping, agonized grunt. The next instant the huge acetelyne
lamp that lighted the room fell to the floor with a crash and the place
was plunged in darkness.

"Queek, m's'u, dees way!" a hand grasped his wrist and the cowpuncher
felt himself drawn swiftly toward the door. From all sides sounded the
scuffling of straining men who breathed heavily as they fought in the
blackness.

A thin red flame cut the air and a shot rang sharp. Someone screamed and
a string of Spanish curses blended into the hubbub of turmoil.

"De hosses, queek, m's'u!"

The cool air of the street fanned the Texan's face as he leaped across
the sidewalk, and vaulted into the saddle. The next moment the big black
was pounding the roadway neck and neck with another, smaller horse upon
which the half-breed swayed in the saddle with the ease and grace of the
loose-rein rider born.

It was broad daylight when the cowpuncher opened his eyes in an arroyo
deep among the hills far, far from Las Vegas. He rubbed his forehead