approaching the
house, and when he reached the corner around which Dale had vanished,
he saw his man, two or three hundred yards ahead, flashing across a
level toward the far side of the big basin.

He knew that Dale thought his pursuer was Nyland, and that thought gave
Sanderson a grim joy. In Sanderson's mind was a picture of Dale's
face--of the stark, naked astonishment that would be on it when he
discovered that it was Sanderson and not Nyland who had caught him.

For Sanderson would catch him--he was convinced of that.

The conviction became strengthened when, after half an hour's run,
Streak had pulled up on Dale. Sanderson could see that Dale's horse
was running erratically; that it faltered on the slight rises that they
came to now and then. And when Sanderson discovered that Dale's horse
was failing, he urged Streak to a faster pace. In an hour the space
between the two riders had become less. They were climbing the long,
gradual slope that led upward out of the basin when Dale's horse
stumbled and fell, throwing Dale out of the saddle.

There was something horribly final in the manner of Dale's falling, for
he tumbled heavily and lay perfectly quiet afterward. His horse, after
rising, stumbled on a few steps and fell again.

Sanderson, fully alive to the danger of haste, rode slowly toward the
fallen man. He was taking no chances, for Dale might be shamming in an
effort to shoot Sanderson as he came forward.

But Dale was not shamming. Dismounting and drawing his pistol,
Sanderson went forward. Dale did not move, and when at last Sanderson
stood over the fallen man he saw that his eyes were closed and that a
great gash had been cut in his forehead near the right temple.

Sanderson saw that the man was badly hurt, but to make sure of him he
drew Dale's pistol from its sheath and searched his clothing for other
weapons--finding another pistol in a pocket, and a knife in a belt.
These he threw into some brush near by, and then he bent over the man.

Dale was unconscious, and despite all Sanderson could do, he remained
so.

Sanderson examined the wound in his temple, and discovered that it was
deep and ragged--such a wound as a jagged stone might make.

It was midnight when Sanderson ceased his efforts and decided that Dale
would die. He pitied the man, but he felt no pang of regret, for Dale
had brought his death upon himself. Sanderson wondered, standing
there, looking down at Dale, whether