ike ropes of steel. Twice he brought down the butt of his
sawed-off gun on the black head of Rutherford. The grip of the big
hillman grew lax, and as the man collapsed, his fingers slid slackly
down the thighs of the officer.

John dropped the empty weapon and dragged out a Colt's forty-four. He
fired low and fast, not stopping to take aim. Another flame seared its
way through his body. The time left him now could be counted in
seconds.

But it was not in the man to give up. The old rebel yell of Morgan's
raiders quavered from his throat. They rushed him. With no room even
for six-gun work he turned his revolver into a club. His arm rose and
fell in the melee as the drive of the rustlers swept him to and fro.

So savage was the defense of their victim against the hillmen's
onslaught that he beat them off. A sudden panic seized them, and those
that could still travel fled in terror.

They left behind them four dead and two badly wounded. One would be a
cripple to the day of his death. Of those who escaped there was not
one that did not carry scars for months as a memento of the battle.

The sheriff was lying in the stall when Sharp found him. From out of
the feed-bin the owner of the corral brought his boy to the father
whose life was ebbing. The child was trembling like an aspen leaf.

"Picture," gasped Beaudry, his hand moving feebly toward the chain.

A bullet had struck the edge of the daguerreo-type case.

"She . . . tried . . . to save me . . . again," murmured the dying man
with a faint smile.

He looked at the face of his sweetheart. It smiled an eager invitation
to him. A strange radiance lit his eyes.

Then his head fell back. He had gone to join his Lady-Bird.

Chapter I

Dingwell Gives Three Cheers

Dave Dingwell had been in the saddle almost since daylight had wakened
him to the magic sunshine of a world washed cool and miraculously clean
by the soft breath of the hills. Steadily he had jogged across the
desert toward the range. Afternoon had brought him to the foothills,
where a fine rain blotted out the peaks and softened the sharp outlines
of the landscape to a gentle blur of green loveliness.

The rider untied his slicker from the rear of the saddle and slipped
into it. He had lived too long in sun-and-wind-parched New Mexico to
resent a shower. Yet he realized that it might seriously affect the
success of what he had undertaken.

If there had been any one to