the telltale
imprints. The moon was slowly brightening. Sandy's eyes, burning
steadily, were untroubled by doubt.

The place of the struggle was plain. The brush was trampled. To one side
of the trail there was a clot of blood, almost black, with flies buzzing
attention to it. It must have come from Grit. He caught sight of another
fleck of it on some leaves where Grit had raced into the brush out of
the way of the crippling fire.

"I'll score one fo' you, Grit, while I'm about it," muttered Sandy as he
dismounted and carefully surveyed the sign. He even picked up Donald's
returning shoemarks. Six horses had gone on, one led.

Sandy swung up the heavy stirrups and tied them above the saddle seat.
He stripped the reins from the bridle and pulled down Pronto's wise
head.

"Hit the back-trail fo' home, li'l' hawss," he said. "If I need me a
mount to git back I'll borrow one. I got to go belly-trailin' pritty
soon."

He gave the pinto a cautious slap on the flank and Pronto started off
down the trail. So far Sandy believed he had not been seen. If he had, a
rifle-shot would have been the first warning. With the experience of a
man who has seen shooting before, he had chanced a miss, knowing the
odds on his side. It was twenty to one Plimsoll and his men had hurried
off to the Hideout.

A buzzard hung in the early evening sky, circling high and then suddenly
dropping in a swoop.

"Looks like Grit's cashed in," thought Sandy. "That bird was a late
comer, at that."

But it was not Grit.

The ravine curved, forked. One way led to Beaver Dam Lake, the other
rifted deep through rocky outcrop, leading to the Waterline Range. The
boundary fence crossed it. Two posts had been broken out, the wire
flattened. Through the gap led the sign that Sandy followed. He carried
his rifle with him and he moved cautiously but swiftly through the half
light, for the cleft was in shadow. The walls lowered, the incline
ended, became a decline, leading down. The clouds were assembling for
sunset overhead, the moon just topped the eastern cliffs, beginning to
send out a measure of reflected light. A beam struck a little cylinder,
the emptied shell of a thirty-thirty rifle. There was another close by.
And scanty soil was marked with more hoofs. Sandy halted, wondering the
key to the puzzle. Did it mean a quarrel between Plimsoll's men?
Altogether he figured there had been a dozen horses over the ground. It
was only a swift guess but he k