ords and a quick gun. There come to men at times
situations when the only solution is to be found in shooting a way out.
Now, more than ever before in his life, was Alan Howard ready for this
direct method.

Arrived in Big Run he rode straight on until he came to Tony Moraga's.
Here, if anywhere in the settlement, he could hope to find his man. A
glance showed him one horse only at the rack, a lean sorrel that he
recognized. It was Yellow Barbee's favourite mount, and it struck him
that if there were further hard riding to be done, here was the horse
to satisfy any man. He threw himself from the saddle, left his own
horse balancing upon its trembling legs, and stepped into the saloon.

Moraga was dozing behind his bar. Yellow Barbee sat slumped over a
table, his lean, grimy fingers twisting an empty glass. No one else
was in the room.

'Courtot been here?' demanded Howard of Moraga.

Moraga shook his head. Howard glanced toward Barbee. The boy's face
was sullen, his eyes clouded. He glowered at Moraga and, turning his
morose eyes upon Howard, snapped out:

'Moraga lies. Jim was here a little while ago. He's just beat it with
a lot of his rotten crowd, Monte Devine and Bettins and True. They're
up to something crooked.'

'I forgot.' Moraga laughed greasily. 'Jim was in the back room there
talking to Sanchia! Nice girl, no?' he taunted Barbee.

'I'll kill you some day, Moraga,' cursed Barbee thickly.

Howard turned back to the door.

'I want your horse, Barbee,' he said quickly. 'All right?'

'Go to it,' Barbee flashed out. 'And if you ain't man enough to get
Jim Courtot pretty damn soon, I am!'

'Keep your shirt on, kid,' Howard told him coolly. 'And keep your
hands off. And for God's sake, stop letting that woman make a fool of
you.'

Barbee cursed in his throat and with burning eyes watched the swing
doors snap after the departing cattleman. Howard, his anger standing
higher and hotter, threw himself to the back of Barbee's roan and left
Big Run riding furiously from the jump. He knew the horse; it could
stand the pace across the few miles and there was no time to lose.
There was scant enough likelihood as matters were of his coming to Last
Ridge before Courtot's crowd. But the men might have failed to change
to fresh horses; in that case his chance was worth something. And,
always, until a game be played out, it is anybody's game.

As he rode out toward the Last Ridge trail his o