foreboding; he knew
what he expected, he knew what was coming. And his foreboding was
fulfilled within a few seconds of taking up his position.

Suddenly he heard a door close, and the voices ceased speaking. He
waited almost breathlessly for the next move. It came. The crackling
of pine cones under shod hoofs sounded sharply to his straining ears.
It was a repetition of what had happened before. Two horsemen were
approaching from the direction of the house. It was inevitable that
his hand should go to his gun, and, as he realized his own action, he
understood how surely the prairie instincts had claimed him. But he
withdrew it quickly and waited, for he had no intention of taking
action. It might be Red Mask. It probably was. But he had no intention
of upsetting his present plans by any blind, precipitate attack upon
the desperado. Besides, if Red Mask and Jake were one, then the
shooting of him, in cold blood, in the vicinity of the ranch, would,
in the eyes of the police, be murder. No story of his would convince a
jury that the foreman of Mosquito Bend was a cattle-rustler.

A moment later the horses dimly outlined themselves. There were two of
them, as before. But he could not see well, the woods seemed darker
than before; and, besides, they did not pass so near to him. They went
on like ghostly, silent shadows, only the scrunch of the cones
underfoot told of their solidity.

He waited until the sound died out, then he rose quietly and pursued
his way. But what he had just witnessed plunged his thoughts into a
moody channel. The night-riders were abroad again, riding unchecked
upon their desperate way, over the trail of murder and robbery they
cut for themselves wherever they went. He wondered with dread who was
to be victim to-night. He remembered Manson Orr and shuddered. He had
a bitter feeling that he had acted wrongly in letting them pass
unchallenged in spite of what reason and a cool judgment told him. His
duty had been to investigate, but he also thought of a sad-faced girl,
friendless and alone, weeping her heart out in the midst of her own
home. And somehow his duty faded out before the second picture. And,
as though to further encourage him, the memory of Joe Nelson's words
came to him suddenly, and continued to haunt him persistently.

"You'll jest round that gal up into your own corrals, an' set your own
brand on her quick, eh?"

CHAPTER XII

THE RISING OF A SUMMER STORM

When the hor