it was green
only at a distance. Nas Ta Bega kept on a steady, even trot. The sun
climbed. The wind rose and whipped dust from under the mustangs.

Shefford looked back often, and the farther out in the plain he reached
the higher loomed the plateau they had descended; and as he faced ahead
again the lower sank the red-domed and castled horizon to the fore.
The ravines became deeper, with dry rock bottoms, and the ridge-tops
sharper, with outcroppings of yellow, crumbling ledges. Once across the
central depression of that plain a gradual ascent became evident, and
the round rocks grew clearer in sight, began to rise shine and grow. And
thereafter every slope brought them nearer.

The sun was straight overhead and hot when Nas Ta Bega halted the party
under the first lonely scrub-cedar. They all dismounted to stretch their
limbs, and rest the horses. It was not a talkative group, Lassiter's
comments on the never-ending green plain elicited no response. Jane
Withersteen looked afar with the past in her eyes. Shefford felt Fay's
wistful glance and could not meet it; indeed, he seemed to want to hide
something from her. The Indian bent a falcon gaze on the distant
slope, and Shefford did not like that intent, searching, steadfast
watchfulness. Suddenly Nas Ta Bega stiffened and whipped the halter he
held.

"Ugh!" he exclaimed.

All eyes followed the direction of his dark hand. Puffs of dust rose
from the base of the long slope they had descended; tiny dark specks
moved with the pace of a snail.

"Shadd!" added the Indian.

"I expected it," said Shefford, darkly, as he rose.

"An' who's Shadd?" drawled Lassiter in his cool, slow speech.

Briefly Shefford explained, and then, looking at Nas Ta Bega, he added:

"The hardest-riding outfit in the country! We can't get away from them."

Jane Withersteen was silent, but Fay uttered a low cry. Shefford did
not look at either of them. The Indian began swiftly to tighten the
saddle-cinches of his roan, and Shefford did likewise for Nack-yal. Then
Shefford drew his rifle out of the saddle-sheath and Joe Lake's big guns
from the saddle-bag.

"Here, Lassiter, maybe you haven't forgotten how to use these," he said.

The old gun-man started as if he had seen ghosts. His hands grew
clawlike as he reached for the guns. He threw open the cylinders,
spilled out the shells, snapped back the cylinders. Then he went through
motions too swift for Shefford to follow. But Shefford hea