vious afternoon or his frenzy of
the night.

After the outburst of anger had spent itself, he realized that he was
hungry. The feeling became acute when he remembered that he had
absolutely nothing on hand to eat. He hastened to saddle up. As he was
about to mount he paused to look uncertainly up the trail on which he
had thrown away the cigarettes. While he stood vacillating, his hand
went to his hip pocket and drew out the silver-cased brandy flask. He
looked at it, and its emptiness reminded him that he was thirsty. He
went down to the pool for a drink. Having filled his flask, he
returned up the bank and sprang into the saddle.

His horse, in fine fettle after the night's rest and grazing, started
off on the jump, cow pony fashion. Ashton gave him his head, and the
horse bore him at a steady lope down along the stream, crossing over
to the other bank of the dry bed, of his own volition, when the going
became too rough on the near side. The direction of the railway was
now off across the sagebrush flats to Ashton's right, but he allowed
his horse to continue on down the creek. About four miles from the
waterhole he approached a bunch of grazing cattle. He drew rein and
walked his horse past them, looking for a herder. There was none in
sight. The animals were on their home range. He rode on down the creek
at a canter.

A mile farther on, as he neared another scattered bunch of cattle,
something thwacked the dry ground a little in front and to the left of
him, throwing up a splash of sand and dust. His pony snorted and
leaped ahead at a quickened pace.

Ashton turned to look back at the spot--and instinctively ducked as a
bullet pinged past his ear so close that he felt the windage on his
cheek. He did not lack quickness of perception. He glanced up the open
slope to his left, and grasped the fact that someone was shooting at
him with a rifle from the crest of the ridge half a mile distant.

Instantly he flung himself flat on his pony's neck and dug in his
spurs. The pony bounded forward with a suddenness that spoiled the aim
of the third bullet. It whined past over the beast's haunches. The
fourth shot, best aimed of all, smashed the silver brandy flask in
Ashton's hip pocket. Had he been upright in the saddle, the
steel-jacketed bullet must have pierced him through the waist.

With a yell of terror, he flattened himself still closer to his pony's
neck and dug in his spurs at every jump. The beast was already