of the fact
of how fleeting must be his stay among friends.

"I've already fixed up a pack of grub," went on Jones. "I'll slip out to
saddle your horse. You watch here."

He had scarcely uttered the last word when soft, swift footsteps sounded
on the hard path. A man turned in at the gate. The light was dim, yet
clean enough to disclose an unusually tall figure. When it appeared
nearer he was seen to be walking with both arms raised, hands high. He
slowed his stride.

"Does Burt Jones live here?" he asked, in a low, hurried voice.

"I reckon. I'm Burt. What can I do for you?" replied Jones.

The stranger peered around, stealthily came closer, still with his hands
up.

"It is known that Buck Duane is here. Captain MacNelly's camping on the
river just out of town. He sends word to Duane to come out there after
dark."

The stranger wheeled and departed as swiftly and strangely as he had
come.

"Bust me! Duane, whatever do you make of that?" exclaimed Jones.

"A new one on me," replied Duane, thoughtfully.

"First fool thing I ever heard of MacNelly doing. Can't make head nor
tails of it. I'd have said offhand that MacNelly wouldn't double-cross
anybody. He struck me as a square man, sand all through. But, hell! he
must mean treachery. I can't see anything else in that deal."

"Maybe the Captain wants to give me a fair chance to surrender without
bloodshed," observed Duane. "Pretty decent of him, if he meant that."

"He INVITES YOU out to his camp AFTER DARK. Something strange about
this, Duane. But MacNelly's a new man out here. He does some queer
things. Perhaps he's getting a swelled head. Well, whatever his
intentions, his presence around Mercer is enough for us. Duane, you
hit the road and put some miles between you the amiable Captain before
daylight. To-morrow I'll go out there and ask him what in the devil he
meant."

"That messenger he sent--he was a ranger," said Duane.

"Sure he was, and a nervy one! It must have taken sand to come bracing
you that way. Duane, the fellow didn't pack a gun. I'll swear to that.
Pretty odd, this trick. But you can't trust it. Hit the road, Duane."

A little later a black horse with muffled hoofs, bearing a tall, dark
rider who peered keenly into every shadow, trotted down a pasture lane
back of Jones's house, turned into the road, and then, breaking into
swifter gait, rapidly left Mercer behind.

Fifteen or twenty miles out Duane drew rein in a forest of mesquite