In this light he knew his
way and lost no time looking for a trail. He crossed the divide and then
had all downhill before him. Swiftly he descended, almost always sure of
his memory of the landmarks. He did not remember having studied them in
the ascent, yet here they were, even in changed light, familiar to his
sight. What he had once seen was pictured on his mind. And, true as
a deer striking for home, he reached the canon where he had left his
horse.

Bullet was quickly and easily found. Duane threw on the saddle and pack,
cinched them tight, and resumed his descent. The worst was now to come.
Bare downward steps in rock, sliding, weathered slopes, narrow black
gullies, a thousand openings in a maze of broken stone--these Duane had
to descend in fast time, leading a giant of a horse. Bullet cracked the
loose fragments, sent them rolling, slid on the scaly slopes, plunged
down the steps, followed like a faithful dog at Duane's heels.

Hours passed as moments. Duane was equal to his great opportunity. But
he could not quell that self in him which reached back over the lapse
of lonely, searing years and found the boy in him. He who had been worse
than dead was now grasping at the skirts of life--which meant victory,
honor, happiness. Duane knew he was not just right in part of his mind.
Small wonder that he was not insane, he thought! He tramped on downward,
his marvelous faculty for covering rough ground and holding to the true
course never before even in flight so keen and acute. Yet all the time
a spirit was keeping step with him. Thought of Ray Longstreth as he had
left her made him weak. But now, with the game clear to its end, with
the trap to spring, with success strangely haunting him, Duane could not
dispel memory of her. He saw her white face, with its sweet sad lips and
the dark eyes so tender and tragic. And time and distance and risk and
toil were nothing.

The moon sloped to the west. Shadows of trees and crags now crossed to
the other side of him. The stars dimmed. Then he was out of the rocks,
with the dim trail pale at his feet. Mounting Bullet, he made short work
of the long slope and the foothills and the rolling land leading down
to Ord. The little outlaw camp, with its shacks and cabins and row of
houses, lay silent and dark under the paling moon. Duane passed by on
the lower trail, headed into the road, and put Bullet to a gallop. He
watched the dying moon, the waning stars, and the east. He had