ed recklessly, taking breaks in the ground without slackening
speed in the least.

Near the summit of the rise Roberts swung from the saddle and ran
forward through the brush, crouching as he moved. With a minimum of
noise and a maximum of speed he negotiated the thick shrubbery and
reached the gorge.

He crept forward cautiously and looked down. Through the shin-oak which
grew thick on the edge of the bluff he made out a man on horseback
driving a calf. The mount was a sorrel with white stockings and a splash
of white on the nose. The distance was too great for Roberts to make out
the features of the rider clearly, though he could see the fellow was
dark and slender.

The line-rider watched him out of sight, then slithered down the face of
the bluff to the sandy wash. He knelt down and studied intently the
hoofprints written in the soil. They told him that the left hind hoof of
the animal was broken in an odd way.

Jack Roberts clambered up the steep edge of the gulch and returned to
the cow-pony waiting for him with drooping hip and sleepy eyes.

"Oh, you Two Bits, we'll amble along and see where our friend is headin'
for."

He picked a way down into the canon and followed the rustler. At the
head of the gulch the man on the sorrel had turned to the left. The
cowboy turned also in that direction. A sign by the side of the trail
confronted him.

THIS IS PETE DINSMORE'S ROAD--
TAKE ANOTHER

"The plot sure thickens," grinned Jack. "Reckon I won't take Pete's
advice to-day. It don't listen good."

He spoke aloud, to himself or to his horse or to the empty world at
large, as lonely riders often do on the plains or in the hills, but from
the heavens above an answer dropped down to him in a heavy, masterful
voice:

"Git back along that trail _pronto_!"

Roberts looked up. A flat rock topped the bluff above. From the edge of
it the barrel of a rifle projected. Behind it was a face masked by a
bandana handkerchief. The combination was a sinister one.

If the line-rider was dismayed or even surprised, he gave no evidence of
it.

"Just as you say, stranger. I reckon you're callin' this dance," he
admitted.

"You'll be lucky if you don't die of lead-poisonin' inside o' five
minutes. No funny business! Git!"

The cowboy got. He whirled his pony in its tracks and sent it jogging
down the back trail. A tenderfoot would have taken the gulch at
breakneck speed.