n open
door which gave entrance to the living-room of the storekeeper's
family, his glance met Terry's. She was rising to her feet, drawing on
her gauntlets.

"That's your train now," a woman's voice was saying.

Packard heard the whistling of a distant engine. He lifted his hat,
she promptly whirled about, giving him her back to look at.

"Here's what I want," said Steve as the storekeeper came to his side.
"That .45, and a box of cartridges."

Terry turned again quickly and he surprised a little look of interest
in her slightly widened eyes. A man doesn't buy a gun and a box of
cartridges at this time of night unless he has a use for them. Packard
took up his new purchases, went out, swung again into the saddle, and
clattered down the street.

The night was bright with stars, clear and sweet. Presently, with only
a handful of miles behind him, the moon rose above the distant ridge,
at the full, glorious and generous of light. He loosened his reins a
little, gave the big roan his head, and swept on through the
ghostly-lighted country.

Now and then, remarking some old remembered landmark, he glanced from
it to his watch; more than once, having slipped his watch again into
his pocket, he leaned forward and patted the horse's neck.

Then--he had done a little more than half the distance and was riding
through the thick shadows of Laurel Canon, which marks the beginning of
the long grade--the unforeseen occurred; the unlooked-for which, he
knew now, he would have fully expected, had he not counted always upon
Blenham playing a lone hand.

In the middle of the inky blotch made by the laurels standing up
against the moon there was a spot through which the moon-rays found
their way, making a pool of light. As Packard rode into this bright
area he heard a rifle-shot, startlingly loud; saw the spit of flame
from just yonder, perhaps ten feet, certainly not more than twenty feet
away; felt the big roan plunge under him, race on unsteadily, and sink.

He slipped out of the saddle as the horse crashed down in the bushes at
the side of the road, and as he did so emptied his revolver into the
shadows whence had come the rifle-shot. But he knew that he was a fool
to hope to hit; the man had had time to select his spot, to screen his
own body with a boulder or fallen log, to leave open behind him a way
to safety and darkness.

"Not Blenham himself but one of his crowd did that," muttered Packard
as he turned back