he had covered when a
voice called sharply to halt. The guard had turned and caught sight of
him.

The feet of the running man slapped the ground faster. As he dodged into
the trees a bullet flew past him. Yet a moment, and he had flung himself
astride the bronco waiting there and had electrified that sleepy animal
into life.

The pony struck its stride immediately. It took the rising ground at a
gallop, topped the hill, and disappeared over the brow. The rider plunged
into the thick mesquite. He knew that Goodheart would pursue, but he
knew, too, that the odds were a hundred to one against capture if he
could put a mile or two between him and the Roubideau ranch. A man could
vanish in any one of fifty draws. He could find a temporary hiding-place
up any gulch under cover of the matted brush. Therefore he turned toward
the mountains.

Since he was unarmed, it was essential that Clanton should get into touch
with his associates of the chaparral at once. Until he had a six-gun
strapped to his side and a carbine under his leg he would not feel
comfortable. All night he traveled, winding in and out of canons,
crossing divides, and dipping down into little mountain parks. He knew
exactly where he wanted to go, and he moved toward his destination in the
line of greatest economy.

Morning found him descending from a mountain pass to the Ruidosa.

"Breakfast soon, you wall-faced old Piute," Jim told his mount. "You're
sure a weary caballo, but we got to keep hitting the trail till we cross
that hogback."

A thin film of smoke rose from a little valley to the left. Clanton drew
up abruptly. He had no desire to meet now any strangers whose intentions
had not been announced.

Swiftly, with a pantherish smoothness of motion, he slid from the cowpony
and moved to the edge of a bluff that looked down into the arroyo below.
He crept forward and peered through a clump of cactus growing at the edge
of the escarpment.

The camp-fire was at the very foot of the bluff. A man was stooped over
it cooking breakfast.

The heart of the fugitive lost a beat, then raced wildly. The camper was
Devil Dave Roush. A rifle lay beside him. His revolver was in a cartridge
belt that had been tossed on a boulder within reach of his hand.

Clanton wriggled back without a sound from the edge of the cliff and rose
to his feet. A savage light of triumph blazed in his eyes. The enemy
for whom he had long sought was delivered into his hands. He ran