once. He could
not have told why the urgent impulse was on him to do this, nor why he
did not split his party and send part of his men in pursuit of the foot
traveler. Later he laid it to what Jumbo would have called a hunch.

He was puzzled by the direction the two riders were taking. It led
neither to the A T O nor to Tascosa, and was making no account of the
streams where the travelers would have to find water. They seemed to be
plunging ignorantly into the desert, but since Gurley or Dinsmore was
one of the two this could not be. Either of these men could have
traveled the Panhandle blindfolded.

They followed the tracks for hours. The line of travel was so direct
that it told of purpose. Dinsmore--if the man were Dinsmore--evidently
knew just what he was doing. Then, abruptly, the tracks pointed to the
right, straight for the A T O.

But not for long. At the summit of a little rise the riders had plainly
stopped for a few moments, then had turned and galloped fast for the
southwest. The lengthening tracks, the sharpness of them, the
carelessness with which the riders took the rougher ground to follow a
straight line, all suggested an urgent and imperative reason.

That reason became plain to Roberts in another minute. A great number of
tracks swept in from the left and blotted out those of the two flying
riders.

"Chiricahua Apaches," grunted Guadaloupe. The scout had a feud with that
branch of the tribe and was at war with them.

"How many?" questioned Jack.

The Indian held up the fingers of both hands, closed them, opened them,
and a third time shut and lifted the fingers.

"Thirty?" asked the Ranger.

The Apache nodded.

"Dinsmore 's makin' for Palo Duro," remarked Wilkins as they followed at
a canter the plain trail marked for them. "I'll bet he don't throw down
on himself none on that race either. He's sure hell-bent on gettin'
there."

One of the riders called to the Rangers. "Look over to the left, Tex. We
got company."

A little group of riders--three, four, five of them--emerged from behind
a clump of Spanish bayonet and signaled with a bandana handkerchief. As
they rode closer the heart of the Ranger died under his ribs. His
stomach muscles tightened, and he felt a prickling of the skin run down
his back. For Clint Wadley rode at the head of these men, and like a
flash of lightning the truth had seared across the brain of Jack
Roberts. His daughter was the woman riding to escape from the