unsteadily, looking at the picture in the palm of his hand. "Lady-Bird
I called her, son. She used to fill the house with music right out of
her heart. . . . Fine as silk and true as gold. Don't you ever forget
that your mother was a thoroughbred." His voice broke. "But I hadn't
ought to have let her stay out here. She belonged where folks are good
and kind, where they love books and music. Yet she wouldn't leave me
because . . . because . . . Maybe you'll know why she wouldn't some
day, little son."

He drew a long, ragged breath and slipped the case back under his shirt.

Quickly Beaudry rose and began to bustle about with suspicious
cheerfulness. He whistled while he packed and saddled. In the fresh
cool morning air they rode across the valley and climbed to the mesa
beyond. The sun mounted higher and the heat shimmered on the trail in
front of them. The surface of the earth was cracked in dry, sun-baked
tiles curving upward at the edges. Cat's-claw clutched at the legs of
the travelers. Occasionally a swift darted from rock to rock. The
faint, low voices of the desert were inaudible when the horse moved.
The riders came out of the silence and moved into the silence.

It was noon when Beaudry drew into the suburbs of Battle Butte. He
took an inconspicuous way by alleys and side streets to the corral.
His enemies might or might not be in town. He wanted to take no
chances. All he asked was to postpone the crisis until Royal was safe
aboard a train. Crossing San Miguel Street, the riders came face to
face with a man Beaudry knew to be a spy of the Rutherfords. He was a
sleek, sly little man named Chet Fox.

"Evening sheriff. Looks some like we-all might have rain," Fox said,