chance was to wait until they had given up
every ruse to draw his fire. They were not certain of his whereabouts,
but were suspicious of that natural fortress of rock. There was not a
rural in Old Mexico who did not know him either personally or by
reputation. The fact that one of them had offered himself as a possible
target proved that they knew they had to deal with a man as crafty as
themselves.

The standing figure, shimmering in the glare, drew back and disappeared.

Waring eased his tense muscles. "Now they'll go back for their horses,"
he said to himself. "They'll ride up to the next ridge, where they can
look down on this pocket, but I won't be here."

Waring planned every move with that care and instinct which marks a good
chess-player. And because he had to count upon possibilities far ahead
he drew Ramon's saddle to him and cut the stirrup-leathers, cinchas, and
latigos. If Ramon got one of their horses, his own jaded animal would be
left. Eventually the rurales would find the saddle and Ramon's horse.
And every rural out of the riding would be a factor in their escape.

The sun blazed down until the pocket of rock was a pit of stagnant
heat. The silence seemed like an ocean rolling in soundless waves across
the hills; a silence that became disturbed by a faint sound as of one
approaching cautiously. Waring thought Ramon had shown cleverness in
working up to him so quietly. He raised on his elbow and turned his
head. On the eastern edge of the pocket stood a rural, and the rural
smiled.

Chapter VI

_Arizona_

Waring, who had known the man in Sonora, called him by name. The other's
smile faded, and his eyes narrowed. Waring thrust up his hands and
jokingly offered to toss up a coin to decide the issue. He knew his man;
knew that at the first false move the rural would kill him. He rose and
turned sideways that the other might take his gun. "You win the throw,"
he said. The Mexican jerked Waring's gun from the holster and cocked it.
Then he whistled.

From below came the faint clatter of hoofs. The rural seemed puzzled
that his call should have been answered so promptly. He knew that his
companions had gone for their horses, picketed some distance from the
pocket. He had volunteered to surprise the gunman single-handed.

Waring, gazing beyond the rural, saw the head of a horse top the rise.
In the saddle sat Ramon, hatless, his black hair flung back from his
forehead, a gun in his hand. Wa