less surely. He could see the man looking over his shoulder,
once, twice, and then again, with that hurried, fearful glance
that measures the approach of retribution. Barring accidents, the
man was his.

But the unforeseen happened. Buck stepped in the hole of a
prairie dog and went down. Over his head flew the rider like a
stone from a catapult.

How long Ned Bannister lay unconscious he never knew. But when he
came to himself it was none too soon. He sat up dizzily and
passed his hand over his head. Something had happened.

What was it? Oh, yes, he had been thrown from his horse. A wave
of recollection passed over him, and his mind was clear once
more. Presently he got to his feet and moved rather uncertainly
toward Buck, for the horse was grazing quietly a few yards from
him.

But half way to the pony he stopped. Voices, approaching by way
of the bed of Dry Creek, drifted to him.

"He must 'a' turned and gone back. Mebbe he guessed we was
there."

And a voice that Bannister knew, one that had a strangely
penetrant, cruel ring of power through the drawl, made answer:
"Judd said before he fainted he was sure the man was Ned
Bannister. I'd ce'tainly like to meet up with my beloved cousin
right now and even up a few old scores. By God, I'd make him sick