een such
a man pass on a big buckskin cayuse several days ago. Ramon thanked him
and rode on. He camped just off the road that evening. In the morning he
set out again, cheered by a new hope. His dream had not lied; only
there should have been another dream to show him the way before he had
come to the fork in the road.

That afternoon three men passed him, riding hard. They were in their
shirt-sleeves and were heavily armed. Their evident haste caused Ramon
to note their passing with some interest. Yet they had thundered past
him so fast, and in such a cloud of dust, that he could not see them
clearly.

* * * * *

Waring, gaunt as a wolf, unshaven, his hat rimmed with white dust,
pulled up in front of the weathered saloon in the town of Criswell on
the edge of the desert.

He dismounted and stepped round the hitching-rail. His face was lined
and gray. His eyes were red-rimmed and heavy. As he strode toward the
saloon door, he staggered and caught himself. Dex shuffled uneasily,
knowing that something was wrong with his master.

Waring drew his hand across his eyes, and, entering the saloon, asked
for whiskey. As in a dream, he saw men sitting in the back of the place.
They leaned on their elbows and talked. He drank and called for more.
The loafers in the saloon glanced at each other. Three men had just
ridden through town and down into the desert, going over-light for such
a journey. And here was the fourth. They glanced at Waring's boots, his
belt, his strong shoulders, and his dusty sombrero. Whoever he was, he
fitted his clothes. But a man "going in" was a fool to take more than
one drink. The three men ahead had not stopped at the saloon. One of
them had filled a canteen at the tank near the edge of the town. They
had seemed in a great hurry for men of their kind.

Waring wiped his lips and turned. His eyes had grown bright. For an
instant he glanced at the men, the brown walls spotted with "Police
Gazette" pictures, the barred window at the rear of the room. He drew
out his gun, spun the cylinder, and dropped it back into the holster.

The stranger, whoever he was, seemed to be handy with that kind of tool.
Well, it was no affair of theirs. The desert had taken care of such
affairs in the past, and there was plenty of room for more.

From the saloon doorway they saw Waring ride to the edge of town,
dismount, and walk out in the desert in a wide circle. He returned to
his h