orse, and, mounting, rode at right angles to the course the three
riders had taken.

One of the men in the doorway spoke. "Thought so," he said with
finality.

The others nodded. It was not their affair. The desert would take care
of that.

About the middle of the afternoon, Waring rode down a sandy draw that
deepened to an arroyo. Near the mouth of the arroyo, where it broke off
abruptly to the desert level, he reined up. His horse stood with head
lowered, his gaunt sides heaving. Waring patted him.

"Not much longer, old boy," he said affectionately.

With his last burst of strength, the big buckskin had circled the course
taken by the three men, urged by Waring's spur and voice. They were
heading in a direct line across the level just beyond the end of the
arroyo where Waring was concealed. He could not see them, but as usual
he watched Dex's ears. The horse would be aware of their nearness
without seeing them. And Waring dared not risk the chance of discovery.
They must have learned that he was following them, for they had ridden
hard these past few days. Evidently they had been unwilling to chance a
fight in any of the towns. And, in fact, Waring had once been ahead of
them, knowing that they would make for the desert. But that night he had
overslept, and they had passed him in the early hours of morning.

Slowly Dex raised his head and sniffed. Waring patted him, afraid that
he would nicker. He had dismounted to tighten the cinches when he
thought he heard voices in argument. He mounted again. The men must have
ridden hard to have made such good time. Again he heard voices. The men
were near the mouth of the arroyo. Waring tossed his hat to the ground
and dropped his gauntlets beside his hat. Carefully he wiped his
sweating hands on his bandanna. Dex threw up his head. His nostrils
worked. Waring spoke to him.

A shadow touched the sand at the mouth of the arroyo. Waring leaned
forward and drove in the spurs. The big buckskin leaped to a run as he
rounded the shoulder of the arroyo.

The three horsemen, who had been riding close together, spread out on
the instant. Waring threw a shot at the foremost figure even as High
Chin's first shot tore away the front of his shirt. Waring fired again.
Tony Brewster, on the ground, emptied his gun as Waring spurred over
him. Turning in the saddle as he flashed past High Chin, Waring fired at
close range at the other's belt buckle. Out on the levels, Andy
Brewster's