y
alert. The night spread rapidly down out of the mountains. The color
faded, and the sudden chill of the high altitude settled about her. Her
hands and her feet were cold with the fear of excitement.

Into the gathering gloom she strained her eyes; toward Sour Creek she
strained her ears, starting at every faint sound of a man's shout or
the barking of a dog, as if this might be the beginning of the uproar
that would announce the escape.

Something swung on to the road out of the end of the main street. She
was instantly in the saddle, but, by the time she reached the edge of
the copse, she found it to be only a wagon filled with singing men
going back to some nearby ranch. Then quiet dropped over the valley,
and she became aware that it was the utter dark.

Arizona had failed! That knowledge grew more surely upon her with every
moment. His intention must have been guessed, for she could not imagine
that slippery and cold-minded fellow being thwarted, if he were left
free to work as he pleased toward an object he desired. She could not
stay in the grove all night. Besides, this was the critical time for
Riley Sinclair. Tomorrow he would be taken to the security of the
Woodville jail, and the end would be close. If anything were done for
him, it must be before morning.

With this thought in mind she rode boldly out of the trees and took the
road into town, where the lights of the early evening had turned from
white to yellow, as the night deepened. Sour Creek was hardly a mile
away when a rattling in the dark announced the approach of a buckboard.
She drew rein at the side of the trail. Suddenly the wagon loomed out
at her, with two down-headed horses jogging along and the loose reins
swinging above their backs.

"Halloo!" called Jig.

The brakes ground against the wheels, squeaking in protest. The horses
came to a halt so willing and sudden that the collars shoved halfway up
their necks, and the tongue of the wagon lurched beyond their noses.

"Whoa! Evening, there! You gimme a kind of a start, stranger."

Parodying the dialect as well as she was able, Jig said: "Sorry,
stranger. Might that be Sour Creek?"

"It sure might be," said the driver, leaning through the dark to make
out Jig. "New in these parts?"

"Yep, I'm over from Whiteacre way, and I'm aiming for Woodville."

"Whiteacre? Doggone me if it ain't good to meet a Whiteacre boy. I was
raised there, son! Joe Lunids is my name."

"I'm Texas Lou," s