LITMIR.BIZ

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what part of the country are we in?" pressed Denver.

      "You want to know, or do you want to know if I know?" parried the other.

      "Let it ride. Your turn now, fella. If you got any ideas how to break the ice let's hear 'em."

      "How about you and me lightin' matches at the same time?"

      "A good item," agreed Denver. "We'll count to ten and strike."

      "I'm damned if we will," said the man, suddenly changing his mind. "You fell too quick. Must have somethin' up yore sleeve. No, it's out. I tell you—supposin' we just natcherlly turn about and ride in opposite directions?"

      "You sure we want to go in them directions?"

      "What directions?" said the man cautiously.

      "What directions have you got?" drawled Denver.

      "Good God, am I goin' nuts?"

      "I'd have to know you better to tell." Denver shifted in his saddle. He heard a creaking of leather, and finally an irritable mumble. "What you doin' over there?"

      "Nothing, brother, nothing at all."

      "That's what I'm doin', and I don't like it."

      "Got your gun leveled on me?"

      "No."

      "You lie like a horse," said Denver.

      "Let it ride, then," said the other and began to swear. "Supposin' I have? If I thought you was what I got an idea yuh are, I'd knock yuh outa the saddle and no regrets. Yellow Clay County—"

      Denver let his arm drift down. It touched, gripped, and drew the gun clear. He broke in softly. "You're one of Redmain's imported gun slingers, mister."

      "How do you know? Who are you?"

      "The name of this county's Yellow Hill!"

      The explanation all but cost him his life. A bullet bit at the brim of his hat before his first shot blasted into the eddying echo of the other. The shadow in front became but half a shadow, the upper part melting down. He heard a stifled moan; the man's horse bucked away and stopped. Denver advanced five yards, swung down, and lit a match. The first flare of light was enough. And there was a cropped sweat on his own face.

      "High stakes for that gamble," he muttered, pinching out the match. That was all. He turned his pony and started along the trail. Every vestige of pursuit had died in the distance. Somewhere Redmain's men were slipping through the trees, collecting again, and somewhere his own riders were groping as blindly as he was. At the end of five minutes he detected a fork of the trail, and he took the one going south. It was a bad guess; after some three hundred yards it stopped and jumped aside like a jackrabbit. He accepted the offshoot wearily. So he drifted, feeling himself sliding more to the north-west. After a time he ceased to keep count with the changing trails; and when he did that he automatically lost himself. Somewhere around one or two in the morning he cast up his accounts mentally, drew into the secretive brush, tied his horse short, and unsaddled. He wrapped himself in the saddle blanket, gouged a channel to fit his hips, and was soundly asleep.

      The training of the range man will not let him sleep beyond dawn; and his vitality springs freshly up after a few short hours of rest, no matter how much physical punishment has gone before. This is his birthright, and never does he lose it until the day he forsakes the queer combination of sweaty drudgery and wild freedom of cattleland and tries another trade. The regularity, the comforts, and the pleasures of the city man may come to him. But never again will he wake as Dave Denver did on this morning, alive, buoyant, energy driving through him; and never will he see through the same vision the first bright shafts of dawn transfix the gray mists. For a thousand such mornings the outcast range man may have cursed himself from his blankets; but looking back upon that time he will wistfully know the best of himself was left there.

      Saddling, Denver took the trail again. To the south it was still dark. But ahead and northward the country lightened up rapidly. The trail widened, climbed considerably, and at last left the trees altogether; and he found himself standing on the rim of one of the innumerable small holes framed within the hills. The trail dropped down without much ceremony to the floor of the hole. A half mile onward the hole narrowed to a rocky throat. He thought he saw a trail shooting up the ridge to the right of this throat, but the fog, though diminishing, was still thick enough to blur his view.

      "Tom's Hole," he grunted. "Great guns, I've dragged my picket halfway to the Moguls. Now, what to do? Straight back, or across the hole?"

      To retreat meant bucking a lot of rugged terrain that he knew little enough about. But he was clear enough in his geography to reflect that beyond the north end of the hole was an east-west road which would carry him into Sundown Valley. His men also knew the road, and it stood to reason that those who had lost contact with the main party would probably drift that way as soon as they oriented themselves. It was no use considering a scout through the timber for them.

      He knew some of his party had been hit, and it worried him. Those who had been knocked out in the meadow would be taken care of by now, for he remembered that, in the heat of the chase, he had told somebody to stay behind. And Leverage would be coming up. But he wanted to assemble the outfit and count noses. Possibly he would have to scout the timber for a few missing men.

      Where Redmain was he had not the slightest idea. All his work in establishing isolated pickets to check the trails had been swept away and would have to be done over again. The first thing was to get organized; and with that in mind he dipped down into the hole as the tendrils of mist began to steam up from the earth like smoke from volcanic fumaroles.

      "The first trick belongs to Redmain," he reflected dourly. "He juggled Leverage and me neat as you please, struck twice and got away. There's a leak a mile wide somewhere on our side of the fence. He knew all about Leverage's moves; and apparently he knew about mine, or guessed well. None of my riders would go bad; some of the Steele men might. I'll have to do some weeding. And I'll have to play fox better."

      He cantered across the bottom of the hole, aiming for the now distinct trail at the far end. High on one rim he saw a doe emerge from the trees; and the next minute he halted, correcting his mistake. It was a small pony. From another angle a man stepped out and lifted a rifle. The peace of the morning was shattered by a rolling report. A jet of earth kicked up five yards short of him.

      He reached for his own rifle in the boot and jumped from the saddle. The man lowered his gun. Another gun crack broke over the hole. Flat on his belly Denver swept the circling rim, unable to locate the second ambusher. Methodically he laid a line on the first man and fired; but his target had dropped from view. Another shot landed directly beneath his horse. Denver jumped into the saddle and whirled to run back up the grade. Immediately he saw it was blocked by three or four riders. He swung again and sank his spurs, racing for the northern mouth of the hole. He was a fair target, and the high rim seemed suddenly to sprout marksmen. They opened at will, wasting lead all around him. Lying flat in the saddle he flung his pony on toward protection of the rocks and was within a hundred yards of them when he saw this exit to be blocked as well.

      A hat and gun popped into sight. Denver swerved, accepting the only other course open, which was the trail that climbed steeply beside the rocks. He let the horse have its head and pumped a brace of bullets at the fellow. Twenty feet on up he commanded the man's shelter and fired again. The gelding trembled with the effort he put into the climb; Denver quit worrying about the other guns trained on him from the rear. The man below, having no means of security from the overhead Denver, began to scurry blindly. The trail clung to the very edge of the cliff as it ascended. A matter of fifty rods higher it leveled into the ridge's summit. Denver grunted, "Go along, my boy, this is another thing we just squeezed through," and looked behind him. A small body of men were galloping in pursuit, sliding down the trail he had shortly before taken. "How in the devil did I pass through that mess of—"

      The gelding faltered. Denver squared himself and found the game lost. The top of the trail was blocked by waiting outlaws. Distinctly he saw Dann's sullen, savage face glaring at him. In such a place, with neither safe retreat nor safe advance possible, Denver reverted to the elemental instincts

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