chance of hitting
Owen, but he was at a great disadvantage because of the condition of
his hands, and he decided not to.

Dale heard Owen and Mary go out; he heard the clatter of hoofs as they
rode away. Then he emerged from the pantry, and through a window
watched the two as they rode down the slope of the basin.

Then Dale yielded to the bitter disappointment that oppressed him, and
cursed profanely, going from room to room and vengefully kicking things
out of his way while bandaging his smashed hands.

In the parlor he overturned the lounge and almost kicked it to pieces
searching for the money Mary had told him was concealed there.

"The damned hussy!" he raged, when he realized that the money was not
in the lounge.

He went out, got on his horse, and rode across the level back of the
house, and up the slope leading to the mesa, where he had seen
Sanderson riding earlier in the day.

For an hour he rode, warily, for he did not want to come upon Sanderson
unawares--if his men had not intercepted his enemy; and then reaching
the edge of a section of hilly country, he halted and sat motionless in
the saddle.

For, from some distance ahead of him he heard the reports of firearms,
and over him, at the sound, swept a curious reluctance to go any
farther in that direction.

For it seemed to him there was something forbidding in the sound; it
was as though the sounds carried to him on the slight breeze were
burdened with an evil portent; that they carried a threat and a warning.

He sat long there, undecided, vacillating. Then he shuddered, wheeled
his horse, and sent him scampering over the back trail.

He rode to the Bar D. His men--the regular punchers--were working far
down in the basin, and there was no one in the house.

He sat for hours alone in his office, waiting for news of the men he
had sent after Sanderson; and as the interval of their absence grew
longer the dark forebodings that had assailed him when within hearing
distance of the firing seized him again--grew more depressing, and he
sat, gripping the arms of his chair, a clammy perspiration stealing
over him.

He shook off the feeling at last, and stood up, scowling.

"That's what a man gets for givin' up to a damn fool notion like that,"
he said, thinking of the fear that had seized him while listening to
the shooting. "Once a man lets on he's afraid, the thing keeps a
workin' on him till he's certain sure he's a coward. Them boys didn'