n a chair to wait. He had no intention of leaving until
Dave had settled.

After the barber had finished with him the puncher stepped across to a
looking-glass and adjusted carefully the silk handkerchief worn knotted
loosely round the throat.

"Get a move on you!" urged the foreman. His patience, of which he never
had a large supply to draw from, was nearly exhausted. "I'm not goin' to
spend all day on this."

"I'm ready."

Dave followed Doble out of the shop. Apparently he did not hear the
gentle reminder of the barber, who was forced to come to the door and
repeat his question.

"Want that shave charged?"

"Oh! Clean forgot." Sanders turned back, feeling in his pocket for
change.

He pushed past the barber into the shop, slapped a quarter down on the
cigar-case, and ran out through the back door. A moment later he pulled
the slip-knot of his bridle from the hitching-bar, swung to the saddle
and spurred his horse to a gallop. In a cloud of dust he swept round the
building to the road and waved a hand derisively toward Doble.

"See you later!" he shouted.

The foreman wasted no breath in futile rage. He strode to the nearest
hitching-post and flung himself astride leather. The horse's hoofs
pounded down the road in pursuit.

Sanders was riding the same bronco he had used to follow the
horsethieves. It had been under a saddle most of the time for a week and
was far from fresh. Before he had gone a mile he knew that the foreman
would catch up with him.

He was riding for Gunsight Pass. It was necessary to get there before
Doble reached him. Otherwise he would have to surrender or fight, and
neither of these fitted in with his plans.

Once he had heard Emerson Crawford give a piece of advice to a hotheaded
and unwise puncher. "Never call for a gun-play on a bluff, son. There's
no easier way to commit suicide than to pull a six-shooter you ain't
willin' to use." Dug Doble was what Byington called "bull-haided." He had
forced a situation which could not be met without a showdown. This meant
that the young range-rider would either have to take a thrashing or draw
his forty-five and use it. Neither of these alternatives seemed worth
while in view of the small stakes at issue. Because he was not ready to
kill or be killed, Dave was flying for the hills.

The fugitive had to use his quirt to get there in time. The steepness of
the road made heavy going. As he neared the summit the grade grew worse.
The bronco