He had started west, taking the trail to the Geronimo, and somewhere on the way he had disappeared. For hundreds of miles along the base of the Rim, and for thousands of square miles along its top, there was a forest of pines as unbroken as the first wilderness, as untracked as the Arctic regions. Once out of the trail a man was lost to all pursuit but, knowing his directions, he was free to ride on as he pleased until he came to the edge of the forest. Into this covert of trees and brush Isham had slipped like a weasel, leaving his wife to ride on to Geronimo; but McIvor cut his trail at last, and, after a month of hard riding, he too rode into Geronimo. For the wolf, now turned fox, had doubled on his tracks and taken shelter within the shadow of the law.
There had been a time when Isham had scoffed at the law, but that was in Tonto County. Geronimo County was different, and there was also a sharp rivalry between the mountain and valley counties. Geronimo was down in the valley, a land of heat and broad canals and alfalfa fields stretching away for miles, and its people were peaceably inclined; but the mountainous Tonto had achieved an unenviable reputation as the home of horse-thieves and outlaws. The Geronimo papers had made the most of his outlawry but Isham had reckoned well when he depended upon local jealousy to protect him from the hand of the law. No Tonto County deputy could arrest him in Geronimo, and he knew that no Geronimo deputy would. And to add to his security it soon became evident that Tonto was glad to get rid of him. The county was bankrupt already from trying to convict him and it was content to let sleeping dogs lie.
This much McIvor learned before he had been in town an hour—and then he experienced a shock. A tall man that he knew sauntered into the saloon and regarded him out of the tail of his eye—it was Burge Masters, one of the Scarborough gunmen. He took a drink and sauntered out, and as Hall sat at a card table another tall Texan walked in.
"Say," he said, coming over to where Hall sat, "haven't I seen you before around here somewhere?"
"Why, not that I know of," responded Hall, and looked him over carefully. He belonged to a breed that he knew all too well—heavy-jawed, with high cheek-bones and narrowed eyes—he was a gunman, straight from Texas. But what was he doing here in this peaceful farming community? The answer was in his eyes. He was there for a purpose and that purpose, for some reason, was not unconnected with him, Hall.
"That your horse out there?" inquired the Texan abruptly, "blue roan with a slit in one ear? Well, I'll have you to know you stole 'im!"
He struck the table and Hall glanced up at him quickly, but he did not make a move.
"You are mistaken, my friend," he answered at last, and the Texan turned away. Hall stepped out the door after him, just in time to see three Texans making a critical examination of his roan. And then it flashed over him, the old Scarborough trick which Isham had attempted at Cold Spring. They were trying to prove him a horse-thief. He stood and watched them, stamping their faces on his memory, and at last they slouched away. But he had the answer now—they were still Scarborough gunmen, and they knew he had come with a purpose. What that purpose was he would admit to no man; but they knew, and Isham would know. He was there to kill the last of the Scarboroughs.
Even if he were not superstitious the appearance of Hall McIvor would send the chill of fear over Isham; for the blue roan which he rode had lured Red to his death, and then horse and man had lured Elmo. It was like the shadow of a raven, the heavy winging of Death itself, to see that drooping roan at the horse-rack, and as McIvor watched the street he was conscious of tense faces that seemed to divine his mission. Perhaps it was his clothes, torn by riding through the brush, or the stern set look in his eyes; but he could tell by their looks that these strangers knew all about him, although now they studiously ignored him. Even the Texans kept away from him, retreating to the saloon across the street; but he knew what was in their hearts. There was a thousand-dollar reward on his head.
Not for nothing had Burge Masters' friend slapped the table insultingly and accused him of being a horse-thief; they were out for the reward and if he refused to fight there were other ways of embroiling him. Hall sensed mischief in the air and yet he was puzzled—they seemed to be prepared for his coming. Where before there had been one Texan now there were eight or ten, all armed and watching him closely; and as he mounted his tired horse and rode him down to the corral he saw two of them swing up and start after him. Then he knew it—he had ridden into a trap. Isham had assembled his gunmen and made all things ready, and then let his presence be known; and McIvor, following blindly, had ridden into an ambush, right there in that peaceful, farming town. If he fled, they would follow him; and if he stayed—well, then it would be ten to one.