ered man's horse. Sidney thought
this was rather a slipshod way of administering justice, but he said
nothing, and went back to his ranch. But if the Sheriff had been
indifferent, his own cowboys had been embarrassingly active. They had
deserted the ranch in a body, and were scouring the plains searching
for the murderer, making the mistake of going too far afield. They,
like Mike, had expected Sam would strike for the Bad Lands, and they
rode far and fast to intercept him. Whether they were actuated by a
desire to share the money, a liking for their old "boss," or hatred of
Hickory Sam himself, they themselves would have found it difficult to
tell. Anyhow, it was a man-chase, and their hunting instincts were
keen.

In the early morning Sidney Buller walked forth from the buildings of
the ranch and struck for the open prairie. The sun was up, but the
morning was still cool. Before he had gone far he saw, approaching the
ranch, a single riderless horse. As the animal came nearer and nearer
it whinnied on seeing him, and finally changed its course and came
directly toward him. Then he saw that there was a man on its back; a
man either dead or asleep. His hand hung down nerveless by the horse's
shoulder, and swung helplessly to and fro as the animal walked on; the
man's head rested on the horse's mane. The horse came up to Sidney,
thrusting its nose out to him, whinnying gently, as if it knew him.

"Hello?" cried Sidney, shaking the man by the shoulder, "what's the
matter? Are you hurt?"

Instantly the desperado was wide awake, sitting bolt upright, and
staring at Sidney with terrified recognition in his eyes. He raised his
right hand, but the pistol had evidently dropped from it when he,
overcome by fatigue, and drowsy after his enormous meal, had fallen
asleep. He flung himself off, keeping the animal between himself and
his supposed enemy, pulled the other revolver and fired at Sidney
across the plunging horse. Before he could fire again, Sidney, who was
an athlete, brought down the loaded head of his cane on the pistol
wrist of the ruffian, crying--

"Don't fire, you fool, I'm not going to hurt you!"

As the revolver fell to the ground Sam sprang savagely at the throat of
the young man, who, stepping back, struck his assailant a much heavier
blow than he intended. The leaden knob of the stick fell on Sam's
temple, and he dropped as if shot. Alarmed at the effect of his blow,
Sidney tore open the unconscious man's