no choice. To attempt to trail Lynch would be
futile, and if he waited until dawn, the scoundrel would be hopelessly in
the lead. He knew of only one pass through the mountains to T-T ground,
and for this he headed, convinced that it was also Lynch's goal, and
praying fervently that the scoundrel might not change his mind.

He was under no delusions as to the task which lay before him. Lynch would
be somewhat handicapped by the presence of the girl, especially if he
continued to lead her horse. But he had a good hour's start, and once in
the mountains the handicap would vanish. The chase was likely to be
prolonged, particularly as Lynch knew every foot of the mountain trail and
the country beyond, which Stratton had never seen.

But the presence of difficulties only strengthened Buck's resolution and
confidence. As he sped on through the luminous darkness, the cool night
wind brushing his face, a seething rage against Tex Lynch dominated him.
Now and then the thought of Mary Thorne came to torture him. Vividly he
pictured the scene at the ranch-house which Mrs. Archer had described,
imagining the girl's fear and horror and despair, then and afterward, with
a realism which made him wince. But always his mind flashed back to the
man who was to blame for it all, and with savage curses he pledged himself
to a reckoning.

And so, with mind divided between alternating spasms of tenderness and
fury, he came at last to the further side of middle pasture and dismounted
to let down the fence. It was characteristic of the born and bred ranchman
that instead of riding swiftly on and letting the cut wires dangle, he
automatically obeyed one of the hard and fast rules of the range and
fastened them behind him. He did not pause again until he reached the
little sheltered nook in the face of the high cliffs, out of which led the
trail.

Had those two passed yet, or were they still out there somewhere in the
sandy wastes of north pasture? He wondered as he reined in his horse. He
scarcely dared hope that already he could have forestalled the crafty
Lynch, but it was important to make sure. And so, slipping out of the
saddle, he flung the reins over the roan's head and, walking forward a few
steps, lit a match and searched the ground carefully for any signs.

Three matches had been consumed before he found what he was looking
for--the fresh prints of two horses leading toward the trail. Hastily
returning to his cayuse, he swung into