, proceeded down the trail
some fifty yards or more, climbed the slope, and there in the rocks,
where the walls gave way to a sandy acclivity, concealed himself to
wait.

The sun at noon found Van a mark for punishment. The day was the
hottest of the season. The earth and rocks irradiated heat that danced
in the air before him. All the world was vibrant, the atmosphere a
shimmer, as if in very mockery of the thoughts that similarly rose and
gyrated in his brain. His horse was suffering for water. The river
was still an hour away, so steep was the climb through the range.

The trail he would gladly have avoided, had such a course been
practical. He had ridden here with Beth, and therefore the mockery was
all the more intense. His inward heat and the outward heat combined to
make him savage. There was nothing, however, on which to vent his
feelings. Suvy he loved. Perhaps, he reflected, the horse was his one
faithful friend. Certainly the broncho toiled most willingly across
the zone of lifelessness to bear him on his way.

Up through the narrowing walls of sand and adamant they slowly
ascended. Barger saw them once, far down the trail, then lost them
again as they rounded a spur of the shimmering hillside, coming nearer
where he lay. He was up the slope a considerable distance--farther
than he meant to risk a shot. His breath came hard as he presently
beheld Van Buren fairly entering the trap.

Van's head had fallen forward on his breast. He looked at nothing.
His face was set and hard. Barger raised his pistol, sighted down the
barrel--and repressed the impulse to fire as the horseman came onward,
unsuspiciously.

No sooner was Van around the turn, where in less than a minute he would
find his progress blocked, than Barger arose and ran with all his might
down the slope.

He let out a yell of exultation as he came to the trail. Van turned in
his saddle instantly, beholding the man in the pass. He knew that
sinister form.

His pony had bounded forward, frightened by the cry. Down went Van's
hand to his own revolver, and the gun came up cocked for action.

One glance he cast up the trail ahead--and saw through Barger's trick.
The _cul de sac_ was perfect, and the convict had halted to fire.

It made a singular picture on Van Buren's retina--that gaunt, savage
being, hairy, wild of eye, instinct with hatred and malice, posing
awkwardly, and the sun-lit barrel of polished steel, just before its