us phantom. He kept telling
himself that it was just imagination, that it would wear off in time.
Still in his heart he did not believe what he hoped. But he would not
give up; he would not accept the ghost of his victim as a reality.

Gray dawn found him in the saddle again headed for the river. Half an
hour of riding brought him to the dense chaparral and willow thickets.
These he threaded to come at length to the ford. It was a gravel bottom,
and therefore an easy crossing. Once upon the opposite shore he
reined in his horse and looked darkly back. This action marked his
acknowledgment of his situation: he had voluntarily sought the refuge
of the outlaws; he was beyond the pale. A bitter and passionate curse
passed his lips as he spurred his horse into the brakes on that alien
shore.

He rode perhaps twenty miles, not sparing his horse nor caring whether
or not he left a plain trail.

"Let them hunt me!" he muttered.

When the heat of the day began to be oppressive, and hunger and thirst
made themselves manifest, Duane began to look about him for a place to
halt for the noon-hours. The trail led into a road which was hard packed
and smooth from the tracks of cattle. He doubted not that he had come
across one of the roads used by border raiders. He headed into it, and
had scarcely traveled a mile when, turning a curve, he came point-blank
upon a single horseman riding toward him. Both riders wheeled their
mounts sharply and were ready to run and shoot back. Not more than a
hundred paces separated them. They stood then for a moment watching each
other.

"Mawnin', stranger," called the man, dropping his hand from his hip.

"Howdy," replied Duane, shortly.

They rode toward each other, closing half the gap, then they halted
again.

"I seen you ain't no ranger," called the rider, "an' shore I ain't
none."

He laughed loudly, as if he had made a joke.

"How'd you know I wasn't a ranger?" asked Duane, curiously. Somehow
he had instantly divined that his horseman was no officer, or even a
rancher trailing stolen stock.

"Wal," said the fellow, starting his horse forward at a walk, "a
ranger'd never git ready to run the other way from one man."

He laughed again. He was small and wiry, slouchy of attire, and armed to
the teeth, and he bestrode a fine bay horse. He had quick, dancing brown
eyes, at once frank and bold, and a coarse, bronzed face. Evidently he
was a good-natured ruffian.

Duane acknowledged th