exhausting his horse when the race was hardly begun. He went into the
ranch house to get a new mount.

When he was calmer, he realized that he had played his part
well--astonishingly well. His voice had not quivered. His eye had met
that of the old rancher every moment. His hand had been as steady
as iron.

Something that Uncle Jasper had said recurred to him, something about
iron dust. He felt now that there was indeed a strong, hard metal in
him; fear had put it there--or was it fear itself? Was it not fear that
had brought the gun into his hand so easily when the crowd rushed him
from the door of the saloon? Was it not fear that had made his nerves
so rocklike as he faced that crowd and made his get-away?

He was on one side now, and the world was on the other. He turned in the
saddle and probed the thick blackness with his eyes; then he sent the
pinto on at an easy, ground-devouring lope. Sometimes, as the ravine
narrowed, the close walls made the creaking of the saddle leather loud
in his ears, and the puffing of the pinto, who hated work; sometimes the
hoofs scuffed noisily through gravel; but usually the soft sand muffled
the noise of hoofs, and there was a silence as dense as the night around
Andy Lanning.

Thinking back, he felt that it was all absurd and dreamlike. He had
never hurt a man before in his life. Martindale knew it. Why could he
not go back, face them, give up his gun, wait for the law to speak?

But when he thought of this he thought a moment later of a crowd rushing
their horses through the night, leaning over their saddles to break the