into the gloom from the sight of Goodheart.

On the back of an envelope Dumont had drawn for him a rough map of the
valley. It showed that the wooded arroyos ran together like the spokes of
a wheel. The judgment of Prince was that he must look for the men he
wanted close to the angle of intersection. Up one or the other of these
draws it was likely they would make their dash for freedom, since
otherwise they would have to emerge into the open. Therefore, they would
hold the base of the V in order not to be cut off from the chance of
getting out of the trap.

The sheriff snaked forward, most of the time on his stomach or on hands
and knees, for what seemed an interminable period. Each least movement
had to be planned and executed with precision. He dared not risk the
cracking of a dead branch or the rustle of dry foliage. As silently as
an Apache he wriggled through the grass.

Billie became aware of a sound to the left. He listened. It presently
defined itself as a wheezing rattle halfway between a cough and a groan.

Toward it Prince deflected. He knew himself to be now in the acute danger
zone, and he increased if possible his precautions. The moaning continued
intermittently. Billie wondered why, if this were the camp of the
outlaws, no other sound broke the stillness. Closer, inch by inch, making
the most of every bunch of yucca and cholla, the officer slowly crept.

The figure of a man lay in the sand, the head resting on a folded
slicker. From time to time it moved slightly, and always the restlessness
was accompanied by the little throat rattle that had first attracted the
attention of the sheriff. The face, lying full in the moonlight, was of a
ghastly pallor.

Prince lay crouched behind a pinon till he was sure the man was alone. It
was possible that his confederates might return at any moment, but Billie
could not let him suffer without aid. He stepped forward, revolver in
hand, every sense ready for instant response.

The wounded man was Joe Yankie. The experienced eyes of Prince told him
that the rustler had not long to live. He was already in that twilight
region which is the border land between the known and the unknown. Billie
spoke his name, and for a moment the eyes of the man cleared.

"Yore boys got me when they jumped our camp," he explained feebly.

"Sorry, Joe. You were firin' when they hit you."

The wounded man nodded. "'S all right. Streak o' bad luck. Gimme water.
I'm on fire," The of