that led along the side of the livery bam. Something in the
half-breed's manner caused Endicott to obey without hesitation and a
moment later the man turned and faced him.

"You hont you 'oman?" Endicott nodded impatiently and the half-breed
continued: "She gon' ridin' wit Purdy." He pointed toward the winding
trail. "Mebbe-so you hur' oop, you ketch." Without waiting for a
reply the man slipped the revolver from his holster and pressed it into
the astonished Endicott's hand, and catching him by the sleeve, hurried
him to the rear of the stable where, tied to the fence of the corral,
two horses stood saddled. Loosing one, the man passed him the bridle
reins. "Dat hoss, she damn good hoss. Mebbe-so you ride lak' hell you
com' long in tam'. Dat Purdy, she not t'ink you got de gun, mebbe-so
you git chance to kill um good." As the full significance of the man's
words dawned upon him Endicott leaped into the saddle and, dashing from
the alley, headed at full speed out upon the winding, sandy trail. On
and on he sped, flashing in and out among the clumps of cottonwood. At
the rise of the trail he halted suddenly to peer ahead and listen. A
full minute he stood while in his ears sounded only the low hum of
mosquitoes and the far-off grind of derrick wheels.

He glanced upward and for a moment his heart stood still. Far above,
on the rim of the bench, silhouetted clearly against the moonlight sky
were two figures on horseback. Even as he looked the figures blended
together--there was a swift commotion, a riderless horse dashed from
view, and the next moment the sky-line showed only the rim of the bench.

The moon turned blood-red. And with a curse that sounded in his ears
like the snarl of a beast, Winthrop Adams Endicott tightened his grip
upon the revolver and headed the horse up the steep ascent.