he trail leading down into the
canyon.

"No--Jerry!" whispered Venters, stepping forward and throwing up the
rifle. He tried to catch the little humped, frog-like shape over the
sights. It was moving too fast; it was too small. Yet Venters shot
once... twice... the third time... four times... five! all wasted shots and
precious seconds!

With a deep-muttered curse Venters caught Wrangle through the sights and
pulled the trigger. Plainly he heard the bullet thud. Wrangle uttered
a horrible strangling sound. In swift death action he whirled, and
with one last splendid leap he cleared the canyon rim. And he whirled
downward with the little frog-like shape clinging to his neck!

There was a pause which seemed never ending, a shock, and an instant s
silence.

Then up rolled a heavy crash, a long roar of sliding rocks dying away in
distant echo, then silence unbroken.

Wrangle's race was run.

CHAPTER XVIII. OLDRING'S KNELL

Some forty hours or more later Venters created a commotion in
Cottonwoods by riding down the main street on Black Star and leading
Bells and Night. He had come upon Bells grazing near the body of a dead
rustler, the only incident of his quick ride into the village.

Nothing was farther from Venters's mind than bravado. No thought came
to him of the defiance and boldness of riding Jane Withersteen's racers
straight into the arch-plotter's stronghold. He wanted men to see the
famous Arabians; he wanted men to see them dirty and dusty, bearing all
the signs of having been driven to their limit; he wanted men to see and
to know that the thieves who had ridden them out into the sage had not
ridden them back. Venters had come for that and for more--he wanted to
meet Tull face to face; if not Tull, then Dyer; if not Dyer, then anyone
in the secret of these master conspirators. Such was Venters's passion.
The meeting with the rustlers, the unprovoked attack upon him, the
spilling of blood, the recognition of Jerry Card and the horses, the
race, and that last plunge of mad Wrangle--all these things, fuel on
fuel to the smoldering fire, had kindled and swelled and leaped into
living flame. He could have shot Dyer in the midst of his religious
services at the altar; he could have killed Tull in front of wives and
babes.

He walked the three racers down the broad, green-bordered village road.
He heard the murmur of running water from Amber Spring. Bitter waters
for Jane Withersteen! Men and women stop