t Saunders had saddled
the pinto Rally. He was a little surprised. Rally was Walter Stone's
favorite saddle-horse and used by none but him. He knew his employer was
absent. Perhaps Saunders had instructions to bring Rally to the station.

Collie paid no further attention to Saunders until the latter came from
his quarters with a coat and a blanket-roll which he tied to the saddle.
Then Collie became interested. He left the road and climbed the hill
back of the corrals. He watched Saunders astride the pinto as he opened
the gate and spurred through without closing it. That was a little
unusual.

"I feel almost like taking a cayuse and following him," muttered Collie.
"But, no. What for, anyway?"

On a rise far below was Black Boyar, loping along easily. Collie saw him
stop and turn into the Old Meadow Trail. He watched for Saunders to
appear on the road below the ranch. Presently out from the shoulder of a
hill leaped Rally. Saunders was plying quirt and spur. The pinto was
doing his best.

"Something's wrong. I'll just take a chance." And Collie ran to the
corral and roped the Yuma colt. He saddled her, led her a few steps that
she might become used to the feel of the cinchas, and then mounted. He
turned the pony up the hill and sat watching the pinto on the road
below. He saw Saunders draw rein and dismount, apparently searching the
road for something. Then he saw him mount quickly and disappear on the
Old Meadow Trail.

Collie whirled the pony round and down the hill. Through the gateway he
thundered. The steel-sinewed flanks stiffened and relaxed rhythmically
as the hillside flew past. The Yuma colt, half-wild, ran with great
leaps that ate into space. They swept through the first ford. A thin
sheet of water spread on either side of them. The outlaw fought the curb
all the way up the hill beyond. Pebbles clattered from her hoofs and
spun skyward as she raced along the level of the hilltop.

Down the next grade the pony swung, taking the turns with short leaps.
On the crest Collie checked her. The road beyond, clear to the valley,
was empty.

He examined the tracks entering the Old Meadow Trail. He had not been
mistaken. Saunders had ridden in. Mounting, Collie spurred through the
greasewood, trusting to the pony's natural activity and sure-footedness.

* * * * *

Louise, sitting on the dream-rock in the old meadow, gazed out across
the valley. Black Boyar stood near with trai