y they were
well upon their way, leaving behind them problems enough unsolved, and
breaking touch with pending events which might cut short all problems
for at least one loyal heart. It was a sad and silent Constance who
looked back and said good-by to the rambling street of Heart's Desire,
lying in the sun empty, empty!

As for the sheriff of Blanco and his men, they trotted on steadily
toward the northeast, hour after hour. They crossed the Patos divide,
and a few miles beyond took up the trail of their quarry, at the point
where Stillson had earlier left it. This they followed rapidly,
crossing wide plains of sage brush and cactus throughout the day. They
slept in their saddle-blankets that night, and were up and off again by
dawn for the second day of steady travel. There were seven men in the
posse, three besides Stillson from the Seven Rivers country, employees
of the cow men on the Pecos,--slim, brown, thin-featured fellows, who
talked little either in the saddle or at the bivouac fire by night.

The second night out they spent by a water hole in the desert; and on
the morning of the third day they ran into their game, earlier than
they had expected. The sheriff, riding in advance, suddenly pulled up
at the crest of a low ridge which they were ascending, and came back
motioning to his men to remain under cover.

"That's the Pinos Altos ranch house just ahead," he explained, "and
there's smoke coming out of it. Old Frazee's friendly enough with the
Kid, and more'n likely the bunch has stopped in there to get something
to eat. Hold on a little till I have a look." He took a pair of
field-glasses from his saddle, and crawling to the top of the ridge lay
examining the situation.

"It's them, all right," he said when he returned. "I know some of the
horses. It's the Kid and about three others. They are all saddled
up--probably stopped in to cook a meal. We'll get 'em sure. Now, all
of you hitch back here, and crawl around to the _arroyo_ below, there.
That'll put us within a hundred yards or so of the house."

Each man, dismounting, hitched his horse, then quietly ran over the
cylinder of his revolver, blew the dust out of the rear sight of his
Winchester, tested the magazine, and cleared the breech action. This
done, each crept to the place assigned to him. Dan Anderson found
himself moving mechanically, dully, with a strange absence of
excitement. He almost felt himself looker-on at what other