metal case he
crushed out of shape beneath the heel of his boot. Having first taken one
twenty dollar yellowback from the well-padded book, he slipped it and the
cigarcase into the inner coat pocket of the dead man. Irregularly in a
dozen places he gashed with his knife the derby hat he was wearing, ripped
the band half loose, dragged it in the dust, and jumped on it till the hat
was flat as a pancake. Finally he kicked it into the sand a dozen yards
away.

"The cattle would get it tangled in their hoofs and drag it that far with
them," he surmised.

The soft gray hat of the dead man he himself appropriated. Again he spoke
to the lifeless body, lowering his voice to a murmur.

"I reckon you wouldn't grudge me this if you knew. I'm up against it. If I
get out of these hills alive I'll be lucky. But if I do--well, it won't do
you any harm to be mistaken for me, and it will accommodate me mightily. I
hate to leave you here alone, but it's what I've got to do to save
myself."

He turned away and plodded up the dry creek bed.

* * * * *

The sun was at the meridian when three heavily armed riders drew up at the
mouth of the canyon. They fell into the restful, negligent postures of
horsemen accustomed to take their ease in the saddle.

"Do you figure maybe he's working up to the headwaters of Dry Sandy?" one
suggested.

A squat, bandy-legged man with a face of tanned leather presently
answered. "No, Tim, I expect not. The way I size him up Mr. Richard
Bellamy wouldn't know Dry Sandy from an irrigation ditch. Mr. R. B. hopes
he's hittin' the high spots for Sonora, but he ain't anyways sure. Right
about now he's ridin' the grub line, unless he's made a strike
somewhere."

The third member of the party, a lean, wide-shouldered, sinewy youth, blue
silk kerchief knotted loosely around his neck, broke in with a gesture
that swept the sky. "Funny about all them buzzards. What are they doing
here, sheriff?"

The squat man opened his mouth to answer, but Tim took the word out of his
mouth.

"Look!" His arm had shot straight out toward the canyon. A coyote was
disappearing on the lope. "Something lying there in the wash at the bend,
Burke."

Sheriff Burke slid his rifle from its scabbard. "We'll not take any
chances, boys. Spread out far as you can. Tim, ride close to the left
wall. You keep along the right one, Flatray. Me, I'll take the center.
That's right."

They rode fo