s
difficult, but at length I made out the statuesque lines of the horse,
and the rider himself, standing in his stirrups and leaning slightly
forward, peering intently about him. The figures were in silhouette
against the sky, but nobody ever fooled me as to a horse. It was the
Morgan stallion, and the rider was Tim Westmore. Just as the realization
came to me, Tim uttered a low, impatient whistle.

It's always a good idea to take a chance. I arose into view--but I kept
my gun handy.

"Thank God!" cried Tim, fervently, under his breath. "I remembered you'd
left your horse by this Joshua: it's the only landmark in the dark.
Saints!" he ejaculated in dismay as he saw us all. "Where's your horse?"

"Gone."

"We can't all ride this stallion----"

"Listen," I cut in, and I gave him the same directions I had previously
given Brower. He heard me attentively.

"I can beat that," he cut me off. He dismounted. "Get on here, Artie.
Ride down the _barranca_ two hundred yards and you'll come to an alkali
flat. Get out on that flat and ride like hell for Box Springs."

"Why don't you do it?"

"I'm going back and tell 'em how I was slugged and robbed of my horse."

"They'll kill you if they suspect; dare you go back?"

"I've been back once," he pointed out. He was helping Brower aboard.

"Where did you get that bag?" he asked.

"Found it by the rock where we were hiding: it's mine," replied Brower.

Westmore tried to get him to leave it, but the little jockey was
obstinate. He kicked his horse and, bending low, rode away.

"You're right: I beg your pardon," I answered Westmore's remark to me.
"You don't look slugged."

"That's easy fixed," said Tim, calmly. He removed his hat and hit his
forehead a very solid blow against a projection of the conglomerate
boulder. The girl screamed slightly.

"Hush!" warned Tim in a fierce whisper. He raised his hand toward the
approaching horsemen, who were now very near. Without attention to the
blood streaming from his brow he bent his head to listen to the faint
clinking of steel against rock that marked the stallion's progress
toward the alkali flat. The searchers were by now dangerously close, and
Tim uttered a smothered oath of impatience. But at last we distinctly
heard the faint, soft thud of galloping hoofs.

The searchers heard it, too, and reined up to listen. Tim thrust into my
hand the 30-30 Winchester he was carrying together with a box of
cartridges. Then with a lea