ter than Purdy, and Long Bill, and all the others. And now she knew
why there was tatting on the bandage! She turned indifferently at a
sound from the direction of the barn, and hurriedly thrust the paper
into the bosom of her grey flannel shirt as McWhorter appeared around
the corner of the haystack.

* * * * *

Once into the bad lands the Texan slowed the blue roan to a walk, and
riding in long sweeping semicircles, methodically searched for Purdy's
trail. With set face and narrowed eyes the man studied every foot of the
ground, at times throwing himself from the saddle for closer scrutiny of
some obscure mark or misplaced stone. So great was his anxiety to
overtake the pair that his slow pace became a veritable torture. And at
times his struggle to keep from putting spurs to his horse and dashing
wildly on, amounted almost to physical violence.

Bitterly he blamed himself for Alice Endicott's plight. He raved and
cursed like a madman, and for long periods was silent, his eyes hot and
burning with the intensity of his hate for Purdy. Gradually the
hopelessness of picking up the trail among the rocks and disintegrated
lava, forced itself upon him. More than once in utter despair and misery
of soul, he drew the six-gun from its holster and gazed long and
hungrily at its blue-black barrel. One shot, and--oblivion. His was the
blame. He sought no excuse--no palliation of responsibility. This woman
had trusted him--had risked life and happiness to protect him from the
bullets of the mob--and he had failed her--had abandoned her to a fate
worse--a thousand times worse than death. Sweat stood upon his forehead
in cold beads as he thought of her completely in the power of Purdy. He
could never face Win--worst of all he could never face himself. Night
and day as long as he should live the torture would be upon him. There
could be but one end--madness--unless, he glanced again at the long blue
barrel of his Colt. With an oath he jammed it into its holster. The
coward's way out! The girl still lived. Purdy still lives--and while
Purdy lives his work is cut out for him. Later--perhaps--but, first he
must find Purdy. On and on he rode pausing now and then to scan the
horizon and the ridges and coulees between, for sight of some living,
moving thing. But always it was the same--silence--the hot dead silence
of the bad lands. With the passing of the hours the torture became less
acute. The bitter sel