where a fine rain blotted out the peaks and softened the sharp outlines
of the landscape to a gentle blur of green loveliness.

The rider untied his slicker from the rear of the saddle and slipped
into it. He had lived too long in sun-and-wind-parched New Mexico to
resent a shower. Yet he realized that it might seriously affect the
success of what he had undertaken.

If there had been any one to observe this solitary traveler, he would
have said that the man gave no heed to the beauty of the day. Since he
had broken camp his impassive gaze had been fixed for the most part on
the ground in front of him. Occasionally he swung his long leg across
the rump of the horse and dismounted to stoop down for a closer
examination of the hoofprints he was following. They were not recent
tracks. He happened to know that they were about three days old.
Plain as a printed book was the story they told him.

The horses that had made these tracks had been ridden by men in a
desperate hurry. They had walked little and galloped much. Not once
had they fallen into the easy Spanish jog-trot used so much in the
casual travel of the South-west. The spur of some compelling motive
had driven this party at top speed.

Since Dingwell knew the reason for such haste he rode warily. His
alert caution suggested the panther. The eye of the man pounced surely
upon every bit of cactus or greasewood behind which a possible foe
might be hidden. His lean, sun-tanned face was an open letter of
recommendation as to his ability to take care of himself in a world
that had often glared at him wolfishly. A man in a temper to pick a
quarrel would have looked twice at Dave Dingwell before choosing him as