homeward, and--toward trouble.

The Kid, mildly curious, had been watching a certain dust cloud for
half an hour. At first he had thought it only a whirling dervish--one
of those restless columns of sand that continually shift over the arid
lands. But it was following the course of the trail below him on the
desert--rounding each bend and twist of it.

The Texan, astride his big white horse, had been "hitting the high
places only," riding directly south at an easy clip, but scorning the
trail whenever a short cut presented itself.

Descending from the higher ground of the mesa now, by means of an
arroyo leading steeply down upon the plain, he saw what was kicking up
the dust. It was a buckboard, drawn by a two-horse team, and traveling
directly toward him at a hot clip. There was one person, as far as he
could see, in the wagon. And across this person's knees was a shotgun.
The Kid saw that unless he changed his course he would meet the
buckboard and its passenger face to face.

Kid Wolf had no intention of avoiding the meeting, but something in the
tenseness of the figure on the seat of the vehicle, even at that
distance, caused his gray-blue eyes to pucker.

The distance between him and the buckboard rapidly decreased as Kid
Wolf's white horse drummed down between the chocolate-colored walls of
the arroyo. Between him and the team on the trail now was only a
stretch of level white sand, dotted here and there with low burrow
weeds. Suddenly, the driver of the buckboard whirled the shotgun. The
double barrels swung up on a line with Kid Wolf.

Quick as the movement was, the Texan had learned to expect the
unexpected. In the West, things happened, and one sought the reason
for them afterward. His hands went lightning-fast toward the twin .45s
that hung at his hips.

But Kid Wolf did not draw. A look of amazement had crossed his
sun-burned face and he removed his hands from his gun butts. Instead
of firing on the figure in the buckboard, Kid Wolf wheeled his horse
about quickly, and turned sidewise in his saddle in order to make as
small a target as possible.

The shotgun roared. Spurts of sand were flecked up all around The Kid
and the big white horse winced and jumped as a ball smashed the
saddletree a glancing blow. Another slug went through the Texan's hat
brim. Fortunately, he was not yet within effective range.

Even now, Kid Wolf did not draw his weapons. And he did not beat a
retreat.